


Ace for your Thoughts

by Cambetaut



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Faraday's POV, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-17 12:45:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 41,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9324191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cambetaut/pseuds/Cambetaut
Summary: Faraday has his family: Ethel, Maria and Jack, and maybe his cards count too, he isn't sure, but he certainly knows he doesn't need to add anyone else to that list... although he might just consider one particularly handsome Mexican.





	1. He Shouldn't Have Touched My Guns

**Author's Note:**

> That is a shitty title, I might have to think of something better and the rating might change, I guess we'll see. I'm certainly not fluent in Spanish so any I add will be with the assistance of google translate, so correct me if you see that I got anything wrong.
> 
> If anyone's interested I do have a [tumblr](http://cambetaut.tumblr.com)

There was a time before he lived off of playing cards and cheating at them, a time when he had a family made up of blood-relatives, but that was years ago already, and he doesn’t like to think back on the hazy memories of his childhood. He’s got all the family he’ll ever need right there with him; Ethel and Maria at his hips, and Jack beneath him. The guns got their names from the family he could remember from before, his grandmother Ethel, who he can only recall a vague likeness of, and his mother Maria, who died before he was ten, maybe, he can never quite remember. You always respected Ethel, nobody ever disrespected her, but Maria... nobody ever cared to show her an ounce of respect, but maybe it was just her line of work. They lived with his grandmother when he was really young, him and his mother, he thinks. When Ethel died they moved into the whorehouse, and his mother was debased by men willing to pay her for it, but he never likes to dwell on the thought too long, it usually makes him uneasy. He's always wondered if that’s what she did before he was born, and his missing father was merely a traveler that would never know he existed, or perhaps she was somewhat respectable, and the man left for other reasons, maybe even died, but who knows, he never did work up the courage to ask. At that time in his life he was Joshua, but he left that name behind at his mother’s grave, preferring to go by Faraday instead, although it could be argued that he liked the air of mystery it left about him more than he hated the name his mother gave him. 

Jack is another story, a shorter, simpler one. He’d won Jack in a bet of sorts, some stout man boasting that the horse was untouchable, too wild, and anyone who could get close enough to put a saddle on him could have the beast, as long as he’d be willing to pay a few bits to try. Faraday had a good feeling about it, the kind he couldn’t just ignore, so he coughed up the money and ended up riding away on the cheapest mount he'd ever come across. Jack got his name from the cards, it was a simple name, and more importantly, Faraday thought it was a perfect fit. 

He’s always had the cards, he thinks so anyway, he remembers them being there his entire life, a comfortable weight in his pocket and fifty-two familiar worn surfaces in his hand. He plays with them sometimes when he’s nervous, works on tricks when he’s bored, but mostly they sit in his pocket, ready to be used as a distraction when he gets himself into trouble, like the one he finds himself in now, staring down the barrels of the guns Earl and Dickie have pointed directly at him, his back to a rat infested mine. The brothers are arguing over who gets to shoot him, but he still has the rest of his trick to finish, and hopefully the distraction will be enough to give him the chance to escape this mess. It's a good thing these men aren't the brightest, or he'd already be bleeding out in the sand beneath his feet.

“You didn’t let me finish,” He says, staring directly at Earl, “Your card was the king of hearts.” He produces said card with a flourish of his hand, to the delight of Dickie, who distracts his brother just long enough for Faraday to pull out his hidden pistol and shoot the darker haired bother in the middle of the head, making it easy for him to get the upper hand on Earl, who is now whimpering at the death of his brother and the pistol poised to blow him to oblivion too. Faraday plays with him a bit, asking him if he’d like to see another magic trick. He really considers blowing the bastard’s nose off, but in the end he just nicks off the top of Earl’s ear, telling him its called ‘the incredible disappearing… ear’. 

Faraday hovers over the man for a moment as he cries about his new injury, pointing the gun at Earl once more, “We’re never gonna cross paths again, “ he says slowly and darkly, letting his words sink in. The man grovels about something, but Faraday doesn't care, he’s focused on getting his guns back, it doesn’t feel right to be without them. 

He walks over to the dead heap that was once Dickie, emptying the chamber of the mans rifle and throwing it to the side to ensure he isn’t shot in the back as he walks away. His next move is to retrieve his beloved guns, tapping the dust off Maria and Ethel before tucking them safely away in his gunbelt. 

“I didn’t want to kill him,” He tells a quivering Earl. “He shouldn’t have touched my guns.” Faraday gathers the cards that Earl had rudely slapped out of his hand before going in search of Jack; he’s ready to be rid of this town and onto the next, before something else happens.

  

He can hear Jack before he sees him, and it doesn’t sound very good, but he knows the horse is capable of handling himself. When the corral comes into view Faraday can see some idiot trying to put reins on his horse, and hears a voice thick with an Irish accent calling Jack silly. 

“Silly horse?” He says easily, like it doesn’t make him want to shoot the man in the head, “That’s a stallion. His name is Jack and he’s killed men before so he oughta be careful.” He waits a moment, assuming the man will acknowledge him, but when he doesn’t Faraday continues, “I require my horse back, that horse.” 

The man finally turns around, saying something about a bet and some whiskey, but Faraday doesn’t really pay attention. “That, sir, is a lie. A complete, absolute fabric-” He begins to dismiss the other man before he jumps off the fence, crossing his arms over his chest. He stands at least two heads shorter than Faraday, and he can remember drunkenly thinking the Irishman was a leprechaun. 

“Good Lord,” he breathes out before he can stop himself, “ I thought that was a dream, I thought you were a leprechaun. That was real?” He blurts out, hoping the man will believe him and just let him have his horse back without too much hassle. His excuse isn’t an exceptional one, he knows, but he couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth, which he blames a bit on the drinking he’s been doing all morning. If it came down to it, he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot the little Irishman, but it could prove difficult talking his way out of that one, so he tries to negotiate. 

It almost does end violently, but before any guns are actually drawn the bounty hunter from earlier in the saloon happens by, offering to buy Jack for him on the condition that Faraday tags along for some mission the dark skinned man says is 'impossible.' It takes him a mere few seconds to agree; frankly he'll do almost anything to finally get out of this little town that’s only brought him back luck.


	2. Oh Good, We Got a Mexican

It feels good to have his little family all back together; he'd be lost without them, especially his guns. Jack he can stand to be apart from for a few days, but he prefers when they’re together, it just feels right. He wonders sometimes if other people have such a strong bond with their horse, more specifically, if anyone else has a horse that will only willingly let their owner near them, but he shrugs off the thought, because really it’s not worth spending his time thinking about it. Instead he focuses his energy on small talk, because the silence stretched between the four people, interrupted only by the steady thud of sixteen hooves, is making him a bit uneasy, and he ran out of alcohol an hour or three ago. 

Having a conversation with Emma proves to be the most fun, although maybe it can’t really be considered a conversation because she hasn’t said a word back to him. Every once in a while though, he can see her jaw clench and her knuckles turn just a bit whiter as she hardens her grip on the reins, so she must at least be paying attention. Sometimes Chisolm can be heard gently chuckling to himself at some of Faraday’s remarks, and it makes the atmosphere feel much lighter, to him anyway. 

Eventually the woman turns to him, her eyes full of anger and her mouth a hard line, and he decides he may have overstepped a boundary or two at some point, so urges Jack up alongside Sam’s horse, before Emma can shoot him for being an ass. Faraday asks Chisolm a few questions that he’s been thinking over, mostly about where they’re going and what exactly they’re going to do when they get there. He decides it might be fun, having a task to accomplish, even if their odds seem a bit bleak at the moment. 

Sam stops at the top of a small hill, ordering, “Twenty miles east of here. Volcano Springs. Supply station. You look for a Cajun, name of Robichaux.” 

It catches Faraday off guard, to think they might actually be recruiting a living legend, so he asks for clarification, “Goodnight Robichaux?” 

“That’s right,” Comes the clipped answer to his left. 

“The Angel of Death…” Faraday whispers, more to himself than anyone else. His mind is racing through of all the stories surrounding the man, so when he turns his attention back to Sam he just catches the tail end of his sentence.

“-means I’m dead and you can… you can keep my horse,” Chisolm grins at him, and he has just enough time to smirk back before Sam and Emma take off, leaving him and Teddy to go fetch Robichaux.

Faraday ponders leaving for a moment, turning tail and running in the other direction, away from a fight that isn’t his own, but he feels something in his chest stir at the thought. There’s some invisible thing pushing him forward in their fool’s errand of a quest, and he feels he might miss something important if he left now, besides, he is a gambler, and what could he possibly have to lose? A little voice in the back of his mind whispers ‘everything’ but he ignores it, shrugging to himself and pointing Jack in the right direction before urging him onward.

 

 

 

It’s a spot of luck that they find Robichaux almost immediately after entering Volcano Springs. Faraday catches his attention with Sam’s name, and Goodnight beckons them to follow him and his intimidating friend, Billy Rocks. They chat while the man gets a shave, talking about a few different things, Teddy carrying most of the conversation while Faraday just drinks and listens, for the most part; he isn't all that interested in talking when there's whiskey to drink, courtesy of his new friends. When he does put in his two cents with a joke he considers rather funny, or maybe the booze just makes it seem funny, he’s terrified it might actually be what gets him killed, but Billy eventually looks him straight in the eye and deadpans, “That is funny.” Faraday shrugs and smiles, taking a big swig of his drink and making a mental note to stay on that man’s good side. 

They have half a day before they have to set out to meet Chisolm, and he decides he’s going to spend it drinking. The four of them talk and trade stories, well, mostly Goodnight talks and the rest just listen, relaxing in each other's company before going off to get shot at by Bogue’s men. Faraday makes sure to enjoy himself while he can, flirting with anyone that catches his eye and trying to drink himself into a coma. 

 

When they meet up with Sam, Faraday can’t quite remember how they got there, but it’s not all that important anyway, so he doesn’t dwell on it, instead pulling out his bottle of whiskey and taking a gulp. It's half empty, and he stares at it for a moment before putting it back in his vest; he was almost positive it was full the last time he looked at it. 

“Sam, that’s Billy. He come with Goodnight,” he says, pointing at the man in question to make sure Chisolm understands who he’s talking about. He’s not sure why Robichaux didn’t introduce them in the first place, or maybe he did; was that what they were talking about?

He has to focus all of his attention on dismounting Jack so he doesn't land on his ass; he doesn't particularly feel like falling onto the ground, which doesn't look very soft. He’s mostly successful, only losing his balance for a bit after his feet have hit the ground, but Faraday holds onto the saddle in front of him for support until he’s steady enough to walk over to Sam. He whispers, or tries to, about Billy’s handiness with a blade, because he feels it’s something Sam should definitely know; he might be rambling about it a bit. 

When he's run out of things to say to Chisolm he looks around their camp, and his eyes lock on the only member of their merry troupe he has yet to be acquainted with. The first words that come to his drunken mind tumble out of his mouth; “Oh good, we got a Mexican.” That might be the voice of reason at the back of his head telling him he shouldn’t have said that, but he just ignores it. Faraday walks over to the man, who still has one hand resting lightly on his gun, and he sways a bit when he notices how attractive the man is, or maybe that’s just the alcohol. He might be blushing a bit too, he’s not quite sure, but his face feels warmer than it usually does; he's certain that has to be the whiskey. Yeah, he’s going to blame it all on the alcohol. His first instinct is to try to rile the man a bit more, because he’s suddenly curious about the reaction he’ll get, so he goes with it, making an idiot of himself and closely watching the expression on the Mexican’s face. It’s hard to tell, but he’s pretty sure he sees a bemused grin under that dark beard, until Chisolm guides the other man away with a hand on his shoulder. Faraday think’s it might be a pity; he wouldn’t have minded a wrestling match. He chuckles to himself about his last thought and fishes out his bottle to take another long swig of burning amber liquid.


	3. It Was Never About the Cards

When Faraday wakes up he grumbles to himself about his aching head and his parched throat. It feels like he’s been eating sand again in his sleep, but he can’t feel any in his mouth, which means he hasn’t, this time. He tries to will the pain away, but it doesn’t seem to be working, so he just takes comfort from the soft press of a body next to him. He snuggles closer, hoping he can fall back asleep. It isn’t unusual for him to wake up next to someone and not remember who they are or where he is, and he’s really tempted to ignore the nagging feeling at the back of his mind that tells him to see who he’s sleeping with, but something doesn’t feel right about this morning, like he’s forgotten some terribly important detail, so he reluctantly cracks open one eye to see where he is. He’s greeted with the beautiful red-pink sky, the sun, all too bright for this time in the morning, slowly inching it’s way higher. He closes his eye again, because looking at the light hurts more than it should. He can hear soft voices behind him, especially Sam’s steady voice… that’s right, he’s with Sam Chisolm. Faraday almost falls back asleep before he wonders who exactly it is then that he’s spooning, it can’t be the woman… what was her name again, Emma? … not only because he can distantly hear her voice, but because his arm is wrapped around the mysterious person, who has a wide chest that certainly does not feel female. He’s terrified for a moment he might have drunkenly decided to snuggle with Billy, but he doubts he would have been that stupid, even in his inebriated state. ...No, that’s entirely wrong, he knows he’s done much more idiotic things than that in the past when he was drunk, so he forces both eyes open, and carefully peers at the sleeping person next to him, letting out a relieved sigh when he sees that it is not, in fact, Rocks. 

Who is the man then? Faraday recognizes him, but he can’t remember the Mexican’s name, and it bothers him a bit. He stares intently at the other man for a moment or two, trying to remember, but when nothing comes to mind he shrugs to himself and lays back down, still intent on catching a few more minutes, or hopefully hours, of sleep before they pack up and head out. The Mexican smells intoxicating, like foreign cigars and leather, and Faraday can’t resist trying to get just a bit closer, only satisfied when his nose is buried in the curls at the back of the other man’s neck. He makes a soft, contented noise at the back of his throat, and it doesn’t take him long to fall back asleep, hoping the pain in his head will be gone when he wakes up.

 

Faraday’s startled out of sleep by a low rumble coming from under him, which sounds almost like a voice, although he can’t understand a bit of it. He lifts his head, looking around to find that he’s almost entirely on top of the Mexican, who is glaring down at him. Faraday couldn’t have been asleep for more than half an hour, he guesses by the sun’s position in the sky, but he’s still tired and hungover. While he’s tempted to just lay his head down and go back to sleep, he instead smirks at the other man and asks, “How’d you sleep, sweetheart?”

The Mexican glares at him, and manages to roll them over so he’s now on top, his knee a dangerous pressure on Faraday’s crotch. “Horriblemente, hablas mientras duermes,” he says dangerously close to the Irishman's face, before getting up and walking away. 

Faraday looks over at Goodnight, who he can hear chuckling to his left, “What'd he say?”

 

 

They spend the day riding, and he almost wishes he hadn’t drank so much the night before, because his head is still hurting by noon. Everyone seems in a much better mood than he is, they’re talking and laughing with each other. During a lull in the conversation he asks no one in particular what exactly he did the night before, because he can barely remember a thing, and he’s mostly greeted with laughter. 

“You were drunk,” Sam offers, which isn’t very helpful.

“You were particularly vocal in your appreciation of our Mexican friend here,” Goodnight tells him, nodding his head towards the man in question. “If I recall correctly you insisted that you would die if you couldn’t sleep next to him.”

Faraday feels a blush creeping up his cheeks that he can’t seem to control. There’s one more question he needs to have answered before he’s done making a fool of himself, because it’s been eating at him all morning, so he turns to the Mexican and asks, “What is your name anyway?” 

Everyone around him erupts into laughter, and after it dies down the man tells him, “Vasquez,” a smile on his all too handsome face. 

 

 

By the time they stop for the night Faraday is thoroughly tired of his companions, so he picks an out of the way spot to dump his gear, which has the added bonus of giving him a good view of the camp. It’s easy to remember now why he doesn’t like traveling with others, and he feels a strong urge to get Jack and leave, even if six people would shoot at him as he rides away, but instead he opts to just go check on his horse, who lets out a soft nicker as Faraday approaches. When they’re finally close enough to touch, he trails his hand along the furry back, making his way to Jack’s face, where he’s greeted with an affectionate nuzzle. It doesn’t take long for his horse to start nosing at his pockets, looking for a treat, which Faraday awards him, chuckling to himself. He rests his forehead against Jack’s neck, content to inhale the comforting scent for a long while. Sometimes when they’re like this he gets emotional, letting his feelings be absorbed by the forest of fur as they tumble out of him, but he tries to hold himself together. He wishes he hadn’t run out of alcohol, because right now he could really use some. 

He walks slowly back to the spot he’d picked earlier, noting that Vasquez is almost directly across from him. Faraday can’t help but watch him for a few moments, admiring the the Mexican’s features while he sleeps; he’s an incredibly attractive man, with one of those smiles that makes his chest ache with longing. He certainly wouldn’t mind a roll in the hay with that one, but he has a sinking feeling it wouldn’t be quite so simple, and the last thing he needs is someone making his life more complicated. He promises himself then and there that he will absolutely not get romantically involved with the man, besides, he already has Jack, Maria, and Ethel, and they’re more than enough for him. 

He turns his attention away from the sleeping form across the fire and down at his hands, to find they’ve already began shuffling his deck of cards skillfully, a flurry of blue and white as he works them. He glances around at some of the others, most of them minding their own business, and as his gaze sweeps around it lands on Teddy and his nearly full bottle if liquor, which Faraday now has every intention of acquiring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> Horriblemente, hablas mientras duermes. - Horribly, you talk while you're sleeping.
> 
>  


	4. Eh, Chingado?

He’s sleeping restlessly when he hears Chisolm and Goodnight talking to each other, followed by the sounds of the rest of camp stirring, so he sits up, catching his hat in his hands as it falls off his face. Everyone’s looking around for signs of trouble, and Faraday feels like he shouldn’t be surprised that Jack Horne has magically appeared, silently motioning that there’s someone up ahead. They all simultaneously turn to look, and his mouth drops open in surprise as a lone Indian comes riding out of the trees.

“Please tell me I am hallucinating,” Robichaux mutters.

“You are hallucinating… so am I,” Faraday states, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes, as if it’ll make the Indian disappear. He hadn’t drank that much the night before, had he? Certainly not enough to be hallucinating in the morning. Maybe it isn’t actually morning, maybe he's just dreaming; he pinches himself, just to make sure, but as it turns out his is very awake. 

All around him the camp is on edge, each person aiming at least one gun at the mysterious man as he draws closer. Faraday repositions himself so he’s lying closer to the ground, one arm resting on a rock in front of him with Ethel aimed to blow the Native’s head off, should he make a wrong move. When Sam begins speaking with the Indian, in Comanche no less, Faraday’s attention starts to wander. He glances around at the others, who are mostly still focused on the scene in front of them, checking to see where they are and that everyone’s okay, not that he cares, he tells himself. He begins to turn his attention back to Chisolm, but his eyes stop on Vasquez, and he can’t seem to tear them away. He knows he probably shouldn’t, but he stares at the Mexican, who has his back turned to Faraday. The Irishman's eyes make a slow journey up and down the man, appreciating what they take in. His ass is just begging to be groped, but no, he needs to stop thinking those sorts of thoughts; he shakes his head, trying to tell himself that he should turn his focus back to Chisolm. However, there are at least six other guns ready to shoot if necessary, so his can’t really be needed all that much. Faraday wonders absently what the rest of the man’s name is, not that they should even be on a first name basis, hell, it’s bad enough that he’s even wondering. He takes a quick mental note to stay very far away from that man when he decides to get drunk, or he knows he’ll have a whole lot of regretting to do in the morning. Vasquez begins visibly relaxing somewhat as Sam's conversation with the mysterious man drags on, his gun arm bending and the tension in his body slackening; Faraday has a feeling he should look away now, but before he can those dark eyes have locked onto his. He doesn’t want to be the first to look away, but when the other man’s mouth quirks up in an amused grin he can't stand it anymore, and turns his attention ahead. 

Sam has stopped speaking gibberish and resumed his English when Faraday starts paying attention again, only catching the last four words, “- probably, we all die,” and he can barely suppress the shiver it sends up his back; it isn’t an especially encouraging to hear that they might not make it out. 

The Native throws a deer carcass to the ground, which Faraday hadn’t noticed before, and seconds later the man jumps down from the horse himself, pulling out a knife, which makes the entire camp tense up again, every gun arm that had been relaxed going perfectly straight. The Indian doesn’t make any move to gut Sam though, he goes over to the deer, cutting out a bloody piece and handing it off to the darker skinned man. When Chisolm takes a bite of the uncooked meat Faraday believes he might be sick, and looks away, unwilling to watch any more. 

“What did he say?” Horne asks as Sam walks back towards the camp.

“He says he’s with us,” Sam relays, and Faraday isn’t sure how he feels about it, although he supposes one more person makes their odds a bit less bleak. 

 

 

They ride out earlier than usual, maintaining a gallop as they go across the sprawling plains. At some point they had collected themselves into a line, with Sam leading the way. It’s a relatively quiet procession, partly because the thumping of hooves drowns out most of the other sounds, but he believes it’s mostly due to the building anticipation. The sun is almost directly above them when the faint outline of Rose Creek can be seen at a distance, and Emma rides up to the front to exchange some words with Sam that Faraday can’t quite make out. He sees Chisolm nod once before pulling back on his horse, slowing everyone behind him until they come to a stop. Faraday can hear Billy and Goodnight exchange a word or two behind him before the Korean goes up to Sam. The group shares a few looks, Faraday deliberately trying to avoid even glancing at Vasquez, before they head out to their agreed upon spots to wait for the signal. 

He leaves Jack out far enough that the horse should be clear of any shooting, before quietly making his way to the back of the building he’s supposed to take position at, to begin waiting patiently for Chisolm. He can see Vasquez directly across the street, hiding in the shadows with a freshly lit cigarillo hanging from his mouth. He’s leaning casually against a building, taking a deep drag and slowly letting the smoke escape his mouth; it might be the sexiest thing Faraday’s seen in his entire life. 

He watches the Mexican push off the building and take a step or two closer to the street; Sam’s begun talking to the Blackstones, and it could be any minute now that they’re going to go out to start their own little war. Vasquez looks at him, but there’s too much space between them for Faraday to make out the expression on his face. He’s really tempted to make some rude gestures, but Chisolm says the code word, and it’s time for them to make their debut. They nod to each other before simultaneously heading out, and it makes him feel a bit more confident knowing that the other man has his back. 

Faraday lets a grin creep up his face as he walks up the porch and leans against the building, his right hand instinctively reaching for Maria, though he doesn’t pull her out just yet. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Vasquez playing with the smoke in his mouth, but he needs to focus; getting distracted at a time like this could be a fatal mistake. 

He hears one of the Blackstone Agents say that Horne ‘would make one hell of a rug,’ and he can’t help but dramatically retort, “And you’ll be murdered, by the world’s greatest lover.”

“Alright, alright,” the Blackstone says, before turning to Sam and asking, “What’s your aim here mister?”

“I hear that there are some cowards running security here so I figured we’d come down here and look after all this gold,” Chisolm replies.

While he knows he should be paying attention to the conversation, Faraday can’t stay focused on any of the words floating around right now; his heart is beating a mile a minute in his chest, and he’s thrumming with anticipation. Under the excitement he can feel fear and doubt, which has been building in him all day. He isn’t particularly fond of being shot at, and with such uneven odds, it only increases his chance of getting a bullet in him. 

He’s drawn out of his thoughts by the sound of a body falling off a building, followed by the panicked whinnying of two scared horses, right before an arrow goes whizzing through the air, lodging itself squarely in the chest of a Blackstone. Nobody dares to make a move, waiting for someone else to start the fight. Overhead he can hear two pairs of boots walking towards Sam, and he makes a note to kill those men first, because their vantage point is much too good for his liking. 

Chisolm gives a command to his horse, who trots out of sight. Just as one man begins to draw his gun, Sam fires off four shots in quick succession, each one finding its target and sending a body crashing to the ground. Around him bullets start to fly in every direction as all the men begin to fire. Faraday aims up, firing two shots off at the men over his head, turning around to find his next victim, but he’s greeted with the sight of a shotgun aimed straight at his gut. Before the man has a chance to kill him Chisolm’s shot him dead, much to Faraday’s relief. That was a closer call than he would have liked, and if it hadn’t been for Sam he would be slowly bleeding out. Another man comes at him from across the street, a bullet barely missing his head and lodging itself in the wood at his back. He glares at the man, firing back with unwavering accuracy. Faraday catches a glimpse of Billy running up the street in a flurry of knives that is truly a terrifying sight to behold. 

He walks down the thoroughfare in search of more men to shoot, picking off three before they have a chance to get Robichaux, who seems utterly lost, but Faraday’s too focused on the fight to care right now. He can see Vasquez gravitating towards him, and he turns his back to the man, until they’re shoulder to shoulder, picking off men as they approach. They make a good team, Faraday thinks, he certainly wouldn’t mind being grouped with him in the bigger fight to come. Vasquez heads over to the bank and Faraday goes in the opposite direction, picking off one more man. When he's finished any men he can see he turns around, just in time to witness the Mexican striding away from the building he had run to earlier, twirling both of his guns in a show of glinting silver, holstering them one at a time and sauntering across the street. Faraday takes back his thought from earlier, _that_ is the sexiest thing he’s ever seen. 

He looks around, but the only remaining Blackstone he can find is starting to ride off. Faraday goes over to Goodnight, who has his rifle trained on the fleeing man, but for some reason he isn’t firing, “Go on, shoot ‘em,” he encourages. “Take the shot,” still nothing, “Take that shot…” He can’t understand why Goodnight is hesitating, so he yells, “Take the damn shot!” Robichaux lowers his gun, looking at Faraday with a strange, distant look in his eyes. Billy appears out of nowhere, taking the gun from Robichaux and stating that it’s jammed. Faraday thoughtfully twirls Ethel as the two walk away; he isn’t sure the rifle was even loaded. 

He makes his way towards Chisolm, just as everyone else does the same.

“How’d we do,” the dark skinned man asks.

“I got five,” Billy answers first.

“I got six,” Faraday states, before he turns to Vasquez to ask, “What’d you get?”

“Six.”

Faraday’s silent for a moment, before he declares, “I got seven,” holding up his fingers for emphasis, causing the Mexican to let out a disbelieving 'pfft.' 

“You wanna try and tie it up? Eh chingado?” he taunts. He realizes a bit belatedly he may have gone too far, because he sees flash of anger in those attractive dark eyes.

“Say when, güero.” Vasquez has his hand lightly resting on his gun, and Faraday’s almost afraid he’s going to get shot over a word he doesn’t entirely understand.


	5. What's a Syllable?

When Sam finishes his thoroughly uninspiring speech to the dear people of Rose Creek and walks off towards the saloon, the other six fall into step behind him. Faraday finds himself trailing at the back, for no reason in particular, but when he looks up he wishes he had stayed towards the front with Chisolm, because he’s greeted with the alluring sight of Vasquez’s backside as the man saunters along ahead of him. He feels an urgent need to finish off the liquor he had acquired from Teddy the night before, so he does. 

Faraday plops down in an empty seat when they’re inside, and the others follow suit, two pulling over additional chairs, until they’re crowded around a circular table. Billy sits to his right, and Faraday tries to nonchalantly shift his chair to the left just to make sure he isn’t invading the Korean’s space, but he’s only moved an inch or two when his leg hits a warm wall of muscle. He looks down to see what, or who more rather, he has bumped into, and finds a leg, clad in dark slacks, which just so happens to be attached to the Mexican, who’s currently raising one questioning eyebrow at him. He almost scooches his chair back over towards Billy, but that man terrifies him, so he stays put, telling himself it's certainly not because he enjoys the feeling of being pressed up against Vasquez. 

The men are talking about anything but the upcoming battle and all the work ahead of them, mostly picking topics without much death involved. Their hosts offer them a free meal and rooms, but Faraday’s only concerned about the food right now, and he begins scarfing it down like a ravenous animal the moment a plate is in front of him. The conversation dies out as the others focus on their food as well, the silence interrupted by the scraping of utensils against plates and pleas for more. As townsfolk go around the room, he can see them watching the men at the table with him, like they’re some fascinating animal to be observed from a distance and not approached unless necessary. 

“It’s like being in one of them damn zoos,” he mutters to himself.

“Fame is a sarcophagus,” Goodnight remarks, and Faraday's surprised to get a response, he hadn't thought he'd said the words aloud. 

“You read those in a book, or you just make them up as you go?” Faraday asks, because Robichaux seems to have one for every occasion. 

“I’ll try to use one syllable words from now on,” the man chuckles back. 

A hand suddenly rests on Faraday's knee, just as he opens his mouth, and his voice hitches a few octaves, letting out a sound more akin to a squeak than his usual voice. He has some difficulty clearing his throat, trying to respond to Robichaux, but what was it he had meant to say? His mind is drawing a blank. He had assumed it was an accident at first, but the hand is still there, a soft pressure on his knee. He’s at a loss for words, his mouth hanging open and his heart pounding in his chest. Everyone’s looking at him now, he has to say something, so he blurts out,“What’s a syllable?” much to the amusement of Goodnight and Billy. 

When the attention of the table moves on to the Comanche and Horne, Faraday looks over at Vasquez, who offers him a grin and a chuckle before his hand retreats. He kicks the Mexican under the table, but it isn’t as hard as he’d like it to be. 

Vasquez leans over, his lips less than an inch from Faraday's ear, his breath a dangerous warmth on his neck, and whispers, “You trying to play footsies with me now, güero?” 

Faraday wants to fire a quip back at him, but he’s blushing furiously and focuses on his drink instead, downing the entire thing and heading off to find more; the only way he’s going to make it through the night is with the help of some strong liquor. The little voice at the back of his mind is telling him in a sing-song manner that he is making a terrible mistake, but he really doesn’t care. Besides, he reasons with himself, he almost died today, twice, he deserves to drown in some whiskey. 

 

 

His head feels like it’s about to explode, and what little light has made its way through the closed curtains to shine in his eyes feels like a fresh wound. He turns on his stomach to bury his face in a soft pillow, letting out a low groan. The night before is mostly a blur; he can remember laughing with the others, there might have been some drunken singing in there somewhere, but he certainly can’t recall a thing about getting into a bed. 

It nearly scares the shit out of him when an arm comes out of nowhere to wrap itself around his waist. He has a sinking feeling he may know who that arm belongs to, and he really doesn’t want his suspicion confirmed, but lady luck is not on his side this morning, because warm breath is at his ear whispering in Spanish. 

“Fuck,” he tells the pillow. 

“Something wrong, güerito?” Comes a husky murmur that’s all to close. 

“Don’t talk so loud,” he mumbles back. 

Vasquez shifts even closer, and Faraday’s fervently wishing he had listened to that voice last night telling him not to drink so much, it’s usually right. The press of the Mexican’s body against his own just feels so right, he’s the perfect combination of muscle and all too soft body hair, and Faraday wants to nuzzle into that welcoming chest next to him… Nope. He tries to slide out of Vasquez’s grip, succeeding in escaping the embrace only to fall off the bed, the blankets tumbling down after him. He can hear deep chuckling from above him, and he throws a pillow at the sound, which only causes his target laugh harder. 

Faraday untangles himself from the blankets, and stands, his face heating at the sight of a very naked Mexican casually laying on the bed, an amused expression painting his features. His eyes trail over the body on display, and he finds himself particularly fascinated by Vasquez’s manhood. 

“Up for round tres?” The man flashes him the sexiest smile he’s sure he’s ever seen, and his body is reacting in exactly the opposite way he’d like it to… He needs to find his clothes right now. 

He discovers his pants almost immediately, donning them as fast as physically possible. He’s less worried about getting on the rest of his clothes, taking his time to make sure he doesn’t accidentally put anything on inside out, which he has done on more than one occasion when a quick exit was required. As he finds articles of clothing that don’t belong to him he throws them on the bed at the Mexican, who seems to be in no rush at all to get dressed. 

Their gun belts seem to have been given more thought than their clothes, because the two are draped nicely across a chair. Faraday picks up his belt, fastening it around his waist and inspecting Ethel and Maria just to be sure they hadn’t been damaged during whatever feat he may have drunkenly decided to attempt. Thankfully they're both fine, so next he pats his pocket, checking to see that his cards are still in place, but they seem to have disappeared. Faraday looks around for them, starting to get a bit frantic when he can’t find a single card anywhere, and he’s just about to ask Vasquez about them, until he sees the man sitting on the edge of the bed, clad only in his slacks, holding the deck out towards him. 

“How’d you…?” Faraday trails off, confused.

“You asked me to keep them safe last night,” he simply replies. 

He goes over to the Mexican, reaching out for his deck, but just as his hand has closed around the cards he finds himself being pushed against the nearest wall, the surprised sound he makes barely escaping his mouth before there’s the insistent pressure of lips against his own. He can’t stop the moan that bubbles at the back of his throat, and he suddenly wants more, so he kisses back without another thought. It’s intense and exhilarating, he can smell that delectable mix of cigar smoke and leather on the man, and there’s something more, a heady musk that makes his knees weak. His empty hand comes up to wrap around Vasquez’s neck, pulling him closer. He wants to take the man up on his offer for a round three, because he can’t remember a damn thing about the first two, but that little voice at the back of his mind is screaming at him to stop before he goes too far. He doesn’t want to listen; he wants to be fucked into next week, but he knows the voice is right. Faraday pushes Vasquez away, more than a little reluctantly, his breathing laborious and his heart beating rapidly in his chest. 

“I…” He wants to say something, anything, but he can’t seem to find the right words, or any words at all, so he does the only other thing he can, and leaves, forcing himself to keep his eyes forward, because if he looks back he won’t have the strength to keep walking away.


	6. I've Always Wanted To Blow Something Up

Faraday has been recruited by Sam and Goodnight to help teach the townsfolk how to shoot, and he enjoys that he’s given something to do that, for once, doesn’t involve the Mexican. The men are standing in a long line at attention, or as close to attention as they can get, waiting for him to appraise them. 

“Guns on your shoulder,” he commands, before correcting, “Right shoulder.”

It seems the men can’t quite understand the order, because only a third of them have followed it. He goes down the line, trying not to roll his eyes at every single one as he corrects them. It’s exasperating, really, and he shakes his head at one man who is holding a goddamn hoe, like it could actually be used in a gunfight. The men make him feel a little hopeless about the upcoming fight; it’s almost like they’re not even trying, but he knows they are, and it makes him want to hightail it out of there before he's shot trying to help men that can't even protect themselves. One idiot, probably the barber, even has a straight razor, as if he possesses even half as much skill in his entire body as Billy does in one pinkie. Faraday grabs it out of the man’s hand, throwing it over his head into the grass. 

“Who here fought in the War of Northern Aggression?” He asks, and maybe three men in the entire line raise their hand. He ignores the urge to plant his face in his palms and keeps moving down the line, thankfully only a handful are left to go over. 

When he’s finally inspected every man, finding them to be mostly lacking, he turns towards Sam and Goodnight, who are just finishing with the last practice target about fifty paces away. Faraday decides his part is done, and goes over to the fence behind the line of men, leaning against it and fishing out a cigar, more than content to leave the other two in charge. Sam teaches them a quick lesson about the basics of shooting, going so far as to demonstrate with his own rifle. When he’s finished a handful of men raise their hands to ask questions, and in the end the lesson is repeated, twice. It’s like watching at a bunch of schoolboys, and Faraday can’t help the giggle that rises in his chest when he thinks of Sam as a schoolteacher. 

The darker man looks extremely perplexed as he comes over to rest along the fence beside Faraday, leaving Goodnight to direct the townsfolk as they practice. The Cajun gives them a minute to get situated and cock their guns, which an alarming amount of them seem to be having trouble with, before shouting to fire. Not a single bullet even grazes any of the targets, and Teddy has managed to fly backwards onto his ass. 

“Jesus wept,” Faraday says incredulously, drawing out the first word. “Statistically speaking they should’ve at least hit something.” He looks over at Sam, who may have given a slight nod, but he isn’t quite sure.

He hears Robichaux yelling about reloading before his attention is wandering off to places he really wishes it wouldn’t. He hadn’t stayed around long enough that morning to find out what Vasquez would be doing, and he finds himself curious about it now. Maybe his Mexican is glistening with sweat as he… What? No. Not his Mexican, the Mexican; where did that come from? They’re barely even friends, and last night was nothing more than a fling, just a one time thing, he reminds himself. That little voice in his head is telling him how very wrong he is, but he’s determined to ignore it. 

The bang of a gun misfiring draws him out of his thoughts, and he’s rather thankful for it. Goodnight dismisses the man, and Faraday makes sure to remind him to leave his gun, because nobody needs to get shot by accident. The line fires again on Robichaux’s cue, and he really shouldn’t be surprised the results are exactly the same. 

“That’s hard to do, this many men and miss that many targets? Twice? I’m looking at a line of dead men,” the Cajun tells them, before beginning to shout.

Faraday thinks it’s almost funny, because the man yelling about not being able to hit a target hasn’t fired a gun since they arrived in Rose Creek. He’s starting to wonder if Goodnight can actually hit anything at all; hell, he might be nothing more than a collection of tall tales. 

“These men need inspiration! Inspire them, you are Goodnight Robichaux after all. Ain’t cha?” Faraday’s voice rings out as he approaches the man in question, rifle in hand. 

“I can hit sand, but we need the lead,” Robichaux replies, as if that would be enough to deter him; it’s almost like he doesn’t know Faraday at all. 

“Twenty three confirmed kills at Antietam,” He continues, looking at the line of men, “One of Connolley’s confederate sharpshooters, dubbed 'The Angel of Death.' Do what he does, he’s a legend.” Faraday turns back to Goodnight, his voice low enough that the words can only be heard by the man in front of him, “Or is that all you are?” He shoves the gun at Robichaux’s chest, perhaps a little harder than necessary. The man stumbles back a step, looking around for a moment or two before glancing over at Sam. In a heartbeat the gun is being grabbed out of Faraday’s hands and pointed towards one of the dummies out in the field, but Goodnight still hesitates, taking a deep breath or two, before seven shots ring through the air in quick succession. The men around them voice their admiration, but Robichaux doesn’t acknowledge anyone, throwing the gun back to Faraday and walking away. The head of the target was shot clean off, and that makes Faraday uneasy; it would be different if the man just had problems shooting, but it’s obvious now it’s a more complex issue than he had first thought. There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that Robichaux might abandon them, Billy in tow, but he tries not to think on it too long.

“Y’all go home, polish your rifles, maybe the glint’ll scare ‘em off,” he tells the citizens of Rose Creek. He isn’t in the mood to play teacher anymore, besides the men had agreed to meet up around noon anyway, which is less than a half hour away. 

 

 

Sam leads them along at a slow trot as they head out of town, stopping when he picks a suitable spot to look back and asses the layout of the hamlet they’ve vowed to protect. Faraday has made sure to avoid Vasquez all morning, but now he finds himself with only Sam between them, and it’s more distracting than it should be. 

“So this is our trap?” It’s more of a statement than a question, but the words from Goodnight get the conversation going.

“It might work, pin ‘em in there,” Vasquez responds. 

“Well it might, if we can teach more than half of these townsfolk to hit the broad side of a barn at ten paces,” Robichaux returns. 

Faraday runs a hand over Jack’s neck, watching his fingers as they glide through the dense fur. None of them sound overly confident, and it makes that knot of unease that’s been growing in Faraday’s stomach tighten. He had hoped the words of the others would reassure him, but it seems they’re all feeling somewhat hopeless, and why shouldn’t they, the odds are definitely stacked against them.

When he looks back up he finds the faces of the men painted with confusion as they stare at Horne, and Faraday looks over as well. Whatever he missed probably wasn’t all that important, he decides, shrugging to himself.

There’s a pause, before a deep voice is asking, “What do you think?”

Faraday looks to his right at Vasquez, who is watching him in return. He thinks for a moment, not sure what to say; their situation reminds him of a story he once heard, so he decides to tell it instead of offering his less than optimistic opinion, “Reminds me of this fella I used to know; fell off a five story building. As he passed each floor people inside heard him say, ‘so far, so good.” He feels the need to add, after half a heartbeat, “He’s dead now.” There’s a brief silence, and then he finds himself asking, “I make good on my horse yet, Sam?” He hadn’t intended to actually voice the question, but he can’t take it back now. 

“So far, so good.”

Vasquez is laughing at him, and the others might be as well, but he can only focus on the beautiful sound coming from the Mexican; it’s becoming increasingly hard for him to deny his attraction to the man. 

 

 

Getting ammo sounds like more fun than it probably should, but that might just be because his day has been far from exciting up to this point. As much as he’d like to go in guns blazing to take out the five or so men, it’s unanimously decided that it’ll be much safer for the miners if they just pick off the Blackstones from a distance, so Sam takes it upon himself to singlehandedly wipe out the men, and Faraday can’t help but notice that Goodnight didn’t even offer to do it, even though he has to have infinitely more skill with a rifle. 

When Bogue’s men have been successfully killed, the seven of them ride across a creek and over to the collection of miners, who eye them curiously as they approach. All of the men look severely underfed and overworked, barely more than skin stretched over bones, many with injuries as well, ranging from lost fingers to one head almost entirely covered in bandages. The men seem like nothing more than slaves, and it makes him shudder to think anyone could willingly treat another person in such a manner. He wonders absently, as they pass by the gallows, how many men have been hung there, or if it’s mostly for show.

Faraday takes his whiskey out of his vest, about to take a drink just as Sam begins talking to the miners, but he pauses, looking at the amber liquid for a moment before tossing it to one of the miners instead; they certainly need it more than he does. 

The group dismounts and follows one worker as he leads them to the explosives stash, and Faraday’s about to follow, when he notices Vasquez frozen in place, his eyes locked on the hangman’s noose. He tries to tell himself that he should just walk away with the other five men and pretend he didn’t notice, but he can’t, the thought of not even attempting to help makes his chest tighten with emotion so intense that threatens to drown him. He can see the Mexican’s throat work as he swallows, and it’s hard to push away the thought of trailing his tongue over that expanse of skin, but there are more pressing matters right now than his attraction to the man. He walks the few steps that put him right at Vasquez’s side, gingerly laying a hand on the man’s right shoulder. He doesn't seem to notice, still transfixed by the length of rope swaying lightly in the breeze, so Faraday takes a deep breath to calm his racing heart and applies a little pressure to the shoulder under his hand, while gently asking, “Okay there, Vasquez?” 

The man turns to him, a lost, fearful look in his eyes. 

“Vas?” Faraday asks quietly.

Another second passes before the Mexican shakes his head a bit, a small, fake smile forming on his lips, “Perfectamente multa.” 

While he doesn’t know much Spanish, he can understand that, and they both know it isn’t a very convincing lie. Vasquez heads off towards the others without another word, as if nothing at all just happened, causing Faraday’s hand to fall off his shoulder as he steps away. He tries to tell himself he shouldn’t care how the man feels, but he does, and seeing him like that made his heart ache in ways he wishes it wouldn’t.

He reaches his companions just as Billy is kicking the door to one of the larger buildings open, too impatient to go searching for the key. Someone lets out a whistle, and the man that so graciously opened the door states the obvious, “This will help.”

“I’ve always wanted to blow something up, “Faraday lets the thought escape his lips, a grin splitting his face. The men around him chuckle at his words.

Chisolm almost immediately begins giving orders, which everyone eagerly follows, and soon wagons have been brought around and the dynamite is being carefully loaded for transport back to Rose Creek. It doesn’t take them more than half an hour before they're mounting up, content to let the miners man the wagons full of explosives.

Faraday finds himself at the end of their procession, Vasquez riding beside him, and as they pass by the gallows on their way out he decides it might be a good idea to distract the man, so he does, keeping him entertained with jokes and even a card trick on their slow ride back to town. 

 

 

That night supper is much more solemn, with only a few quiet conversations between the seven of them as they eat. Vasquez isn’t sitting beside him this time, but rather directly across the table, and Faraday tries to avoid looking up as much as possible, because even if he was nice enough to help the man out earlier it doesn’t mean he wants to start being friendly; he knows where it would lead them, and it’s exactly the type of thing he’d like to avoid. As they finish eating the men head up to their rooms, and Faraday realizes he isn’t sure which one is his. 

“Uh, where do I sleep?” He asks as he reaches the top of the steps. Only Chisolm and Vasquez are left in the hallway, and Sam casts him a questioning look, like the man isn’t sure if he’s joking or not. 

“You’re with me, güero,” he hears at the end of the hall, where the Mexican has paused in front of the door Faraday made a hasty exit from that morning.

“But where’s my room?” 

“You’re sharing with Vasquez,” Sam tells him slowly, like it should be obvious.

“Don’t I get my own?” He asks, a hint of desperation in his voice.

“Nope, all full.”

“Wait, can’t I share with you?” He asks, just as Sam’s door is being shut squarely in his face.

He has no choice, unless he fancies sleeping out with Jack, but the last time he’d done that the horse had nearly killed him. He walks to the end of the hall in defeat, entering through the door that was left wide open, and shutting it behind him. It isn’t a very big space, with only the one bed… One bed, he’s going to have to share a bed. Oh god, he might faint. No, no there's no way in hell he's gonna let himself faint, but he’d certainly like to punch whoever left him share a room with the only man he's so hopelessly attracted to in the entire town. That little voice in his head has returned to remind him he probably insisted on sharing with Vasquez when he was completely shitfaced, and he knows it’s entirely right; he hates himself at the moment. 

The other man is already in the bed, and Faraday isn’t quite sure what to do with himself, but he is certainly not sharing, and he’s going to make sure he resists the urge to kiss Vasquez while he’s at it. He notices a blanket, folded nicely at the foot of the bed, and grabs it, along with the closest pillow, throwing them on the floor. He’s going to sleep down there and he's also going to like it, even if it kills him. 

Vasquez doesn’t say a word, and Faraday makes a point of ignoring the man as he gets himself settled. When he lays down, an annoyed sigh escapes him; this has got to be the most uncomfortable place he’s ever tried to sleep, of course. He attempts to close his eyes and just wait for sleep to take him, but after hours, or probably only couple minutes, he still can’t find a comfortable position, and he’s pretty sure he acquired a few splinters. He decides he’ll wait until the other man is asleep, then crawl into bed and then try to wake in the morning before his companion so it would seem like he stayed on the floor the entire night, it’s a flawless plan. Faraday listens to the quiet sound of breathing, trying to ensure Vasquez is actually asleep before he makes his move, but hell if he has the patience for that, so after a minute or so he gets up and quietly slips into the bed.

“I knew you’d change your mind.” 

“Shut up,” He grumbles back, much to the amusement of his bedfellow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> Perfectamente multa - perfectly fine
> 
> Yay, so I Finally got this chapter done, and I should be able to complete the next one tomorrow. Hope you're enjoying the story so far.


	7. What Does Güero Mean, Anyway?

In the morning he’s fully prepared to feel the warmth of another body pressed against him, but when he doesn’t his heart begins pounding in his chest, fear creeping into his mind; what if something had happened to Vasquez while he was asleep? What if a bounty hunter had kidnapped the man while his guard was down? Or worse yet, what if he had grown some common sense and snuck out while he had the chance? Faraday sits up suddenly, eyes scanning the room for some imagined threat, but there is none, and the Mexican’s right there beside him, just half a foot away. He lets out a relieved sigh, kicking himself for getting so worked up over nothing at all and laying back down, staring up at the ceiling. 

It isn’t exactly morning yet, the sun having just barely touched the sky with faint traces of light in the distance. He looks over at the sleeping face of the man beside him; it’s the first time he’s been able to really look at Vasquez up close, and he decides to spend long seconds silently observing while he can. There are wrinkles at the corners his eyes, obtained from a life of squinting into the harsh light of the desert. His skin isn’t more than a shade or two darker than Faraday’s, although it’s entirely natural, not from his exposure to the sun. His hair is a dark, curly mess, and Faraday can’t pass up the opportunity to run a hand through it while he can. It’s a tentative touch at first, and he holds his breath as he just barely makes contact, waiting to ensure he doesn’t wake his companion, but when Vasquez doesn’t stir one bit, he continues, his heart racing as his fingers trail through the short strands of hair. He sighs contentedly to himself, and does it again, and again, because there’s nobody to stop him. That voice in his head isn’t even breathing a word about putting an end to all this nonsense, although that’s probably because it’s just as transfixed as he is. 

Vasquez stirs underneath his hand, an incoherent mumble escaping his lips, and Faraday completely freezes, not daring to continue but unsure if he should remove his hand. There’s a second or two of tense silence, before he hears a gravelly voice saying to him, “No se detenga.” 

He has absolutely no idea what that’s supposed to mean, and he’s just about to reluctantly retract his hand when Vasquez shifts closer and nudges Faraday’s arm, so he takes that as a go ahead, and continues, reveling in the contented noise that escapes the other man. He really should stop, he reminds himself, but fuck it, he’s got a sleepy Mexican in his arms purring like a kitten, and he’s not about to give that up. 

 

 

A loud knock startles them both awake, and Faraday levels a glare at the offender hidden behind the closed door. No words follow, but it’s obvious that it was Chisolm’s way of telling them they’d stayed in bed too long. He flicks his gaze back to Vasquez, trying to hide the hitch in his breathing when he notices how close they are. There’s barely an inch between their noses, and those dark brown eyes are watching him intently. He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to disentangle himself from the other and go down the stairs to face reality, he likes it far too much right here, in the arms of someone he… No. He has no feelings for this man at all, it’s just nice to snuggle. Yeah, he’ll go with that. 

“We should probably…” He trails off, not sure how to put it into words.

“Sí,” Vasquez responds. 

They still haven’t moved, but Faraday knows if they don’t get their asses up someone’ll come barging through the door, probably with a bucket of very cold water to dump on their heads, and that’s the last thing he needs this morning, so he sighs, reluctantly withdrawing himself from their embrace and moving to get dressed, although he’s not in much of a hurry.

 

 

Sam patiently waits for Faraday and Vasquez to pull up a seat before he starts, then they dive headfirst into arranging a plan. The biggest thing going for them is the element of surprise, along with some dynamite, but that won’t be enough to win this for them, they’ve gotta prepare for anything and everything, or they’re surely doomed. 

He isn’t quite interested in most of the conversation, but that can easily be blamed on the attractive man that sits next to him, straddling the chair with his arms resting on its back. His hair is still a complete mess, and it’s distracting to look at. 

“Goodnight, you’re our best shot with a rifle. You find high ground that gives you a clear line of sight and you keep Bogue in your sight once the chaos starts,” Sam tells Robichaux, who only nods in return. Faraday tries not to let it show how much he distrusts the man’s ability to be of any use to them, and if anyone does notice they don’t say a thing. 

“Now, whatever happens, Bogue can’t leave,” Chisolm points out.

“How do we even know Bogue’s gonna show?” Faraday asks; it doesn’t seem anyone’s considered the man might not come himself, content to stay away and send as many men as it takes to cut them all down.

“He’ll show,” Sam responds.

“And if he just shoots you in the head?” He questions. 

“Then just shoot him in the head, I don’t know, avenge me.” Sam states, as if it should be obvious.

Each day they get closer to their impending fight it seems a bit more futile, like they’re expending all their energy and time for something that will only get them killed. He hates feeling this hopeless; it’s like he’s a child again and he can’t do anything to help his mother as she struggles to make enough money to feed them both. He’s feeling panicked, and he doesn’t want to make a scene by rushing out of the room to seek the comforting presence of Jack, so he does the only other thing he can think of in the moment, and places his hand on Vasquez’s knee, his grip probably harder than it should be. It’s helps, but not much, he’s still having trouble calming down, until a comforting hand rests on top of his, and suddenly it’s like all the worry melts away and he can breathe again. 

“Esperemos que si morimos, hemos confesado,” Vasquez says to the group, and the conversation is over just like that, the men rise and head towards the door. Faraday shares a look with the man he went to for support, before they leave the saloon as well. 

 

 

The seven of them walk around the town together, pointing out good spots to place men or traps, until they reach the shell of the burnt church. The charred wood contrasts starkly with the remaining white paint, and Faraday has a feeling most of the town will be in a similar state when this is all over, if it isn’t entirely burnt to the ground. 

“Won’t have to go too far to pray for forgiveness,” he remarks absently as they walk around the remains of some pews. 

“There’s no forgiveness for men like you, güero,” Vasquez tells him, a smirk on his attractive face. 

“Don’t call me güero.” Faraday retorts. “What does güero mean anyway?” He asks after a heartbeat, “Handsome? Debonair?” The Irishman casts a smug look across the church at his roommate, who’s begun laughing at him.

“Something like that.”

 

 

There’s enough sunlight left to get started on one their ideas, and someone, probably Sam, decides they should begin with digging a trench… great. It’s hard work, and it makes everyone sweaty and miserable, although the miners assisting them are extremely efficient about it. It’s hard enough for Faraday to focus on not accidentally taking off his own foot without any added distractions, but whatever concentration he may have possessed flies out the window when Vasquez removes his vest, and then his shirt. It’s horrible, just horrible, how is a man supposed to get anything done when the person beside him is a rippling mass of sweaty muscles, mercilessly attacking the ground. 

“How much longer, Sam?” He whines. 

“Stop complainin’, we’re almost done.”

 

‘Almost done’ has to be the most inaccurate thing Sam Chisolm has ever told him, because two more hours is nowhere close to almost done in Faraday’s book. He barely has enough energy left to eat; he’s almost tempted to just let his face fall on the plate in front of him and take a nap, but he makes it through supper, barely. 

The bed is a welcome sight when he’s finally back in his room, and he wants nothing more than to lay down and snuggle up with Vasquez, who seems to be of a similar mind, because it doesn’t take them more than a second to embrace each other after they’ve hit the mattress. 

It occurs to Faraday, just as he’s drifting off to sleep, that he’s getting a little too comfortable with the Mexican. They shouldn’t hold each other as they sleep, and his mind shouldn’t be occupied with those dark eyes and that sultry voice every other minute; he’s got to stop himself, before it turns into something much more, but he can deal with his feelings in the morning. That voice at the back of his mind is telling him it might be much too late, but he’s already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> No se detenga - Don't stop.  
> Esperemos que si morimos, hemos confesado - Let’s hope if we die, we’ve confessed. 
> 
>  
> 
> So that was a lot of cuddling in one not very long chapter; hope you enjoyed it, let me know what you think.


	8. You Might Want to Wear Some Pants

It’s a blessing that his companion isn’t wrapped around him when he wakes, because he’d like some time to himself, and now’s his only chance; he knows he’ll be too exhausted by the end of the day to do much more than fall into bed. He sneaks out of the room, careful to keep his steps light as he descends the stairs and ventures outside. The sun is just beginning to peak over the horizon, painting the sky with light blues and pinks; it’s a truly beautiful sight. He admires it for a moment or two, reveling in the relative silence. The town is mostly still asleep, but songbirds have already begun to fill the air with their music. It’s oddly peaceful for a town teetering on the edge of war.

Jack is as excited to see him as Faraday is to see his horse, it seems, because he’s prancing around and stretching his neck out to connect his nose with his owner’s palm. Jack always acts like this when they don’t see each other for a few days, and it never ceases to make Faraday smile. Anticipation builds between them as he tries to make quick work of saddling his horse, who can barely stand still to have the tack put on him. The minute he swings himself up into the saddle Jack takes off, barely giving Faraday enough time to hold on, but he’s used to this particular habit by now. 

They race across the ground, and it’s exhilarating. This has always been the best way to clear his mind, because it feels like they’re flying, and he can’t help but smile and lean forward, urging his horse on. The scenery passes by his eyes as nothing more than a blur; they’re racing towards the sun, like they always do, as if they might be able to reach it before it disconnects from the earth and rises up into the sky. He needed this, to feel free and light as a feather as they race to nowhere in particular. He sometimes finds himself wishing that they could stay like that forever, riding on as fast as Jack can take them, their troubles fading behind them as they race towards the sun, but even his horse has limits. Jack begins slowing up much too soon for his liking, but he won’t push the animal, they covered a lot of ground; hell, he can barely see Rose Creek when he looks behind them. 

He pulls the horse to a stop, and they watch the sun as it rises higher, the beautiful colors that once surrounded it beginning to fade to blue. He could leave now, the voice in the back of his mind is telling him. He knew it wouldn’t take long for his thoughts to catch up to them, but he had hoped he could have another minute to himself before they arrived. The voice is right though, he could leave, and it would almost be like he was never there at all, but he has a feeling the guilt would follow him around for years to come if he just took off. The men in the town behind him are the only people he’s ever considered his friends, and it feels wrong to even think about abandoning them. Especially Vasquez. 

He’s gone and done the one thing he promised himself he wouldn’t a very long time ago, sobbing beside a cross sticking out of the brown earth. He had vowed that he’d never love another person, because it hurt so much to lose them, so much more than it should. Now he finds himself hopelessly falling for a man that’s probably going to die within the week, but if it’s any consolation, he probably will too. There’s a part of him that wants to give in and just be in love, even if it’s only for a few days, but mostly he wants to push his feelings down and ignore them, like he always has. If the situation were any different he’d have left the moment he realized how attracted he was to the man, but he doesn’t have that luxury now, so he’s faced with making a decision for once, and he doesn’t look forward to it. 

He slouches forward in the saddle, until his forehead comes into contact with the back of Jack’s neck. Facing his problems is going to be hard, and facing down an army of guns poised to blow him to bits isn’t looking much easier. He runs a hand through Jack’s fur, taking comfort in his steady presence. He isn’t sure what’ll happen to the horse if he dies, and it makes his heart clench to think about it. He’d hate for some bastard to try to break his horse, because Jack’s spirit is the best part of him. Faraday lets out a sigh, which is echoed by Jack, and they turn around, slowly retracing their steps. 

They’re only halfway back when gunshots ring out, and he decides to investigate; he’s in no rush to get back to Rose Creek. He sees Emma’s horse first, who is happily munching away on grass, and then his eyes find the woman, who is aiming her rifle at a defenseless half-submerged tree. He dismounts, not bothering to tie Jack to anything, because the horse has never wandered far. 

“Pretty,” he compliments, after another shot is fired.

She eyes him, not seeming surprised in the least at his sudden appearance, and the look she gives him clearly says she is not in the mood for his shit. 

“I mean good,” he clarifies, “Your shooting is good, do it again. Sight the lowest part of the V, cheek resting against the sto-” He’s cut off as she shoots. 

“I had a father, thank you.”

“I didn’t,” he tells her, his blood boiling at the word. He’s always hated it, and it only serves to remind him of a faceless bastard that certainly didn't help him out at all. He pulls out Maria, because she’s feeling the same burning hatred. She takes one shot, then lets out four more as quickly as possible. 

“God dang it, I’m good,” He applauds himself. Fathers have nothing to do with someone’s ability to shoot, at least not his anyway. 

“Why are you here Mister Faraday,” She questions, and he isn’t sure how to respond. “I mean why are you here, fighting someone else’s fight?” 

He doesn’t say that it started off with a horse and escalated. Doesn’t tell her that the men he’s barely known for more than a week are his closest friends, and certainly doesn’t utter a word about a mysterious Mexican and how devilishly attractive he is. He doesn’t say that he just can’t force himself to leave, no matter how hard he tries, instead he only tells her, “I needed my horse back, and this was the price.” It’s a bit of the truth, but far from all of it. His actions have nothing at all to do with the ‘right thing’ and everything to do with how his world is crumbling around him and he can’t stop it. For the first time in his adult life he cares about other people, about one person in particular, and it’s destroying him. 

“Six pounds of pressure, that’s all that’s require to kill a man,” He draws Ethel and shoots at the fallen tree, because she wants in on the action. Six pounds of pressure, and it could all be over. “And they say the nightmares never go away.”

“Those nightmares, they keep you up often Mister Faraday?” She asks, and he looks over at her. There’s an unspoken ‘always’ hanging in the air, but he doesn’t dare utter it. 

“You might want to wear some pants if you’re fixing to fight.”

He leaves, jumping on Jack and spurring him into a gallop. Flying is the best feeling in the world, he thinks, as they thunder off towards town. 

 

He knew they’d be doing backbreaking work, but today it feels unbearable. His muscles ache from all the labor he’d done the day before, and he’s ready to drink himself into a stupor before the sun is even halfway across the sky. He isn’t shy about sharing his complaints, voicing some of them especially loudly, and most of the men look like they’re about to deck him for it. He doesn’t really care though, he’s miserable and ready to crawl into bed now, not in another eight hours or so. 

 

It has to be the longest day of his life, but thankfully they’re done with the trenches now. While he is quite hungry, he’s more concerned about filling his empty stomach with alcohol than food when they reach the saloon. He orders two whiskeys right away, downing both as soon as he can get his hands on them. He has every intention of drinking himself into the bliss of a blackout, but before he’s even close a familiar accented voice is telling him, “That’s enough, güero,” and leading him up to bed. Faraday isn’t sure if he wants to remember the next part in the morning; that same person is patiently helping him undress and then gently tucking him into bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's not all that long, but ta da. I have every intention of getting another chapter done today.


	9. Don't Tell Ethel About Maria

It’s odd, waking up in a bed for the fourth morning in a row; he can’t remember the last time he’d stayed in one place for so long, and he’s certain he’s never shared a bed for so many consecutive nights. He likes sleeping next to someone though, he’s never done much of it before now, and he hadn’t realized how much he thoroughly enjoys it, especially the cuddling. Most of the times that he’d woken to find he wasn’t alone in the past he could barely remember anything from the night before, and in the morning he would gather all of his things and make a hasty exit. It’s nice to not have to do that here, to be able to roll over and fall back asleep in the comforting presence of someone who’s becoming more familiar with each passing day. With that thought he does roll over, hoping to sling an arm around Vasquez, but the space beside him is empty. He looks around the room, searching for the Mexican, but Faraday’s entirely alone. He tries to tell himself that it doesn’t matter, that it’s probably better the other man isn’t here, but he knows that isn’t one bit true. 

 

Laying explosives is one of the most exciting things he’s done in days, although he isn’t sure if it’s a blessing or a curse that Vasquez is sent along with him. It’s the first time they’ve been alone during the day, and the silence between them feels tense. He’d like to say something to lighten the mood, but his mind seems to be entirely blank, so he tries to calm himself with a cigarette.

“Very smart, smoking, huh?” It’s the first thing Vasquez has said to him all day. 

Faraday takes the cigarette from his mouth, looking at it. The Mexican may have a point; he’s been handling things that could blow him up all day. He looks for a place to put the smoke out, but anywhere near him is probably not a good idea, so he throws it at the other man, and it glances off his arm. He’s rewarded with a glare, and chuckles to himself as Vasquez quickly stomps it out. 

 

Only five of them have supper together; Sam disappeared as soon as they were done working, and the Native has been away keeping watch for Bogue’s army for a day or two. It’s different than many of the previous nights, because they’re all in a rather good mood and actually drinking along with Faraday for once. They exchange jokes and laugh, he’s pretty sure it’s one of the best nights he’s ever had, because he doesn’t have to worry about anything at all, he can just enjoy himself in the company of people he cares about.

“Did I introduce you to my wife?” He asks, because he’s drunk and he’d like to show off his guns. “Her name is Ethel, and I love her.” 

Goodnight responds from across the table, but Faraday’s too focused on Vasquez’s laugh to hear what the cajun says.

“And I consider her to be the love of my life. She’s a no bullshitter, she’s a strait shooter…” He can tell he’s rambling, but he can’t get enough of the smile on the Mexican’s face, that is, until Horne is telling him to calm down.

“Her name is Ethel,” he tells the man-bear a bit grumpily, “And you’ll show her some goddamn respect.”

He draws his other gun in a flash, “It’s Maria you can disrespect.” 

Vasquez is smiling at him again, and it’s got to be the best thing he’s ever seen. The others might be laughing as well, but he isn’t concerned about them right now, he’s looking into dark eyes that threaten to make his heart explode.

“Don’t tell Ethel about Maria,” he adds, watching his roommate let out a hearty laugh.

“Wait, wait, wait, my Maria, cabrón?” Vasquez asks him, and for a moment the Irishman’s completely frozen, because he isn’t sure how he should react. 

“You have a Maria?” Faraday almost whispers, a little afraid that the man might have a woman waiting for him somewhere, a real woman. What if the only man he’s ever let himself fall for is already taken? What if he’s going to get his stupid heart broken? 

“I have three Marias,” the man tells him loudly, holding up his fingers for emphasis and roaring with laughter.

Faraday lets out a relieved sigh and chuckles, trying to cover his momentary fear. Jack has begun chastising them, but he’s still caught looking into Vasquez’s eyes, and he doesn’t really care what Jack has to say about it.

“You talk about guns, you talk about women, you talk about them separately. It ain’t right.” 

“Sure it is. Sure it is, my friend,” Vasquez replies.

“I had a wife once. Had a family; had some children too, one time.” Jack says, a forlorn look on his face. Vasquez has, for the first time that night, stopped shoveling food into his mouth, and Faraday glances between the two of them, at a complete loss over what to say.

A woman approaches their table, one he knows he’s seen around, but never quite caught the name of. She throws down Horne’s jacket and comments about how the stitching should keep up, but the thing he’s interested in paying attention to is Vasquez, because the faces he’s making are just the most adorable thing Faraday has ever seen, and he really wants to kiss him right then and there, but he still has some self control left. 

“You quit staring, I didn’t ask her to do that,” Jack points an accusing finger at the Mexican.

“Well, the lady just did some poking and sticking for you, maybe you should consider returning the favor, you know?” He makes a poking motion with a spoon full of food, laughing into his plate.

Faraday downs the rest of his drink, and heads off to get another, because he hasn’t had nearly enough yet. It only takes half a minute, and he’s heading back to the table, two glasses in hand. He offers one to Vasquez as he sits, and the man eyes him curiously for a moment, but after a second he just shrugs and accepts. 

The Mexican has finally finished eating, so Faraday whips out his cards, because he hasn’t had the time for a game in days. They all agree to play a hand or two, and he’s absolutely giddy. 

They've been playing for maybe an hour when he feels a boot against his ankle, and it’s just a tentative touch that quickly recedes, but it makes his heart start racing in his chest. Faraday tries to play it off as nothing, but then it’s back, slowly stroking up his leg. He gulps, trying not to lose his focus or his poker face, but he can feel heat rising to his cheeks.

“Everything okay, güerito?” Vasquez asks, mock concern on his face.

“Fine,” Faraday grits out, trying to control himself, but that foot goes just a bit higher, and a whimper escapes him before he can stop it. He tries to cover it up by clearing his throat, but Goodnight is throwing him a knowing look from across the table. 

“We can always stop if you need a break,” the Mexican tells him, just one corner of his mouth quirking up in the smallest of smiles. 

“I can go all night,” he snaps back. That voice in his head is telling him he really shouldn’t have said that, and he needs to start thinking before he speaks, but it’s too late for that now. He stares back at the other man, refusing to break eye contact and leaning towards him an inch or two.

“¿Oh, en serio?” A wolfish smile is now on his attractive face, and Faraday isn’t sure if he wants to slap it off or kiss it instead.

“Yes,” He says firmly, although he isn’t quite sure what en serio means.

In the background he can hear Goodnight saying something about going to bed, and the other two follow him as he leaves, mumbling in agreement, but Faraday isn’t paying them any attention. That foot moves a bit higher, almost at his knee now, and he narrows his eyes at the man. He suddenly snatches his cards out of the man’s hand and gathers up the rest scattered on the table, before heading towards the stairs, pausing at the bottom to turn to Vasquez, who hasn’t moved from the table.

“Aren’t you coming?” 

In an instant the Mexican is out of his seat and following him, and they’re practically racing up the steps. As soon as the door to their room closes behind them he pushes Vasquez against it, kissing him with all the passion that’s been building within him for days. God, he tastes just as good as he did the first time, and every kiss Faraday’s ever had before couldn’t even think of measuring up. His hands explore the other man, one gravitating towards his dark hair and another grabbing his ass. Vasquez moans into his mouth as he tugs on the man’s hair, and fuck it makes fire pool low in his stomach. 

He can feel hands fumbling at his vest, undoing the buttons before they start to push it off his shoulders, and he relinquishes his contact for a moment to shrug it off before his hand goes back to the Mexican’s head, pulling on his hair hard enough that their kiss breaks and he can run his mouth along a bearded jaw and nip at the exposed throat like he’s been dreaming about. He makes quick work of the black leather vest on his partner, and pushes his loose white shirt up over his head as well. 

An appreciative noise escapes his throat when he takes in the sight, not that he hasn’t seen it before, but it’s so much better now that he isn’t trying to stop himself from exploring it with his hands. He’s busy sucking a mark onto Vasquez’s shoulder right where it meets neck when he feels hands at his gun belt, and he stops searching exposed skin to do it himself. He undoes it with practiced ease, but the weight feels off. He disconnects completely from the other man to look at the belt in confusion, only to find that Maria has gone missing. He looks around them, searching the floor, but he can’t find the gun anywhere. 

“What’s wrong?” Vasquez whispers into his ear after placing a few kisses around it. 

“I can’t find Maria.” 

“Maria?” The question comes after a mark has been sucked into his skin just below the previous kisses. 

“My gun, I can't find my gun,” He guides the man to the side of the door and breaks away, promising, “I’ll be right back.” 

If Vasquez says anything Faraday can’t hear it, because he’s already out of the room and rushing down the stairs. He’s searching a bit frantically, looking around the empty room to find where she might have fallen out of his belt. He needs to find her, he has to find her, he doesn’t know what he’d do if she was lost forever. He’s nearly combed the entire place, but it isn’t until his eyes scan the bar that he spots her, and relief floods through him. Maybe it’s because he’s rather drunk, or possibly it has something to do with the actual Maria, but when Faraday gingerly picks her up, he whispers how sorry he is to the metal. 

He heads back up the stairs, ready to ravish the hell out of his roommate, but when he enters the room he finds the man in the bed and fast asleep. If Faraday had just made sure both of his guns were securely in his belt before they came up together, he could be doing something much more fun than sleeping in that bed, but it doesn’t matter now. He smiles fondly at the sight, laying Maria down with Ethel and shucking his shirt and pants before climbing into the bed next to Vasquez. He snuggles up against the man, wrapping an arm around his stomach and promptly falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> ¿Oh, en serio? - Oh, really?
> 
> I was having a lot of issues writing the beginning of this chapter, I went through like five different ideas before it came out like this, idk, does it suck?
> 
> Anyway, I will hopefully have anther done tomorrow.


	10. I Have Nowhere Else To Go

He wakes with a hangover, which isn’t all that surprising, but compared to some of the ones he’s had in the past, this is almost nothing. Vasquez, it seems, is suffering similarly, because Faraday hears him complain for the first time since they’ve met; well, he assumes it’s complaining, he can’t understand a damn word of it, but the man's tone seems rather petulant.

Faraday’s laying on his back, with one arm under tucked under his head, while his eyes roaming the ceiling as he thinks, not quite ready to get out of bed just yet. He’d like to talk about last night, wants to know if it was just the effect of too much alcohol or if the Mexican might have feelings for him too. There’s hope fluttering in his chest, a fervent wishing that he might be able to spend the days ahead experiencing the love of another, just to know what it really feels like for once, but that voice in the back of his head is trying to quash every inkling of optimism, telling him that now is not the time for these sorts of things; a distraction right before a war is not good, because he needs to be able to watch his back, not worry about someone else’s. He’s filled with so much uncertainty he’s not sure he can handle it all, but he’s distracted from his thoughts when a head comes to rest on his chest, and his free hand is pulled down until it connects with soft curls. 

“Por favor,” Vasquez mutters, and the man doesn’t need to say anything else; it’s obvious what he’s asking for.

Faraday huffs out a laugh and begins to run his fingers through the dark locks. He looks down, just in time to watch the Mexican’s eyelids flutter closed. Maybe this is enough, whatever it is that’s developed between them; it’s definitely the closest relationship he’s ever had with another human. Maybe he doesn’t have to say a thing about passionate kisses in the dark and risk ruining this comfortable companionship, so he doesn’t, he runs his hand through soft hair and lets out a small, contented sigh. 

 

Fixing up the church doesn’t seem like an overly daunting task, but it’s certainly a lot more heavy lifting than Faraday’s in the mood for. They put in a few new supports for the belfry and try to fortify the charred husks that were once a walls, then sandbags are added along the bottom, in an attempt to offer some better cover should the need arise. It’s tiring, and he absolutely hates it, but he tries contain his complaints, because the look Sam shot him this morning when he opened his mouth was truly terrifying, and the last thing he wants to face is the Wrath of Chisolm. 

The sun is just barely touching the horizon, steadily sinking and taking the daylight with it, when they finally start the last part: rehanging the bell. It’s heavy metal that takes a few men to move into place, and once a rope is attached, which goes up through the tower and stretches out towards the street, Faraday assists Billy and Horne in pulling the thing up. 

The town seems to quiet as people turn their attention to the mostly restored belfry, whispered prayers leaving some of their lips. He watches Vasquez as the man stares up at the steeple, making the sign of the cross, but Faraday’s attention is caught by a white-grey blur streaking across the plains, and a feeling of dread washes over him. He moves closer to the Mexican as a familiar horse thunders down the street towards them, their Native friend jumping off as the beast skids to a halt mere feet from Sam. Red is speaking urgently, and Faraday doesn’t have to understand the language to know what the man’s saying; Bogue isn’t far off. 

On an impulse he reaches out for the hand next to his, and he’s not sure if he’s trying to offer comfort or seek it, but Vasquez only squeezes lightly, not making any attempt to draw away from the contact. 

Faraday knew that one day soon the peaceful normalcy he’s become accustomed to would end, but he hadn’t expected it to be quite so soon, he thought he had more time, that maybe… 

Up in the steeple the bell rings out, and what might have been a cheerful chime to signal the end of all their hard work just minutes ago, now feels like the herald of doom. 

 

He’s sitting on the porch of the saloon, shuffling his cards in an attempt to work off some nervous energy, while Vasquez stands a foot in front of him, leaning against a beam and watching Faraday’s hands, a cigar hanging out of his mouth. Horne and Red have been quietly occupying the space beside them for some time, none of them in the mood to talk. Every once in a while Faraday looks up at the man in front of him, hoping to find a comforting smile or even just to look into his eyes, but the Mexican’s brow is furrowed in thought, and he doesn’t seem to notice. 

In the background he can just barely hear the townsfolk over by the church, the candles they hold illuminating the end of the street on the periphery of his vision. Just the night before the town was filled with laughter and joy, but now it’s almost like being in a ghost town. He tries to just focus on the cards moving in his hands and not the doubt clouding his mind, but he can’t seem to stop worrying. He wants someone to say something encouraging about tomorrow; that they’ll definitely all make it, and there’s no need to be afraid, but instead he’s offered silence, and it certainly doesn’t make him feel optimistic. 

A steady clop of hooves echoes along the alley beside the saloon, and he turns to watch the horse and rider as they pass. He tries to reason with himself that it’s just one of the townsfolk, but it’s impossible to mistake the silhouette of Goodnight as he rides past them, not daring to look in their direction as he flees. It means one less good shot, not that he had been counting on the man to begin with, but it makes their odds seem all the more impossible. He’s somewhat surprised that Billy doesn’t come riding up behind the Cajun, but someone does walk from the alley and halfway onto the street to watch as the horse and rider pass by the church and disappear from sight. When the man turns towards the porch Faraday can see it’s Chisolm, and it looks like he wasn’t expecting to see the four of them there. He approaches slowly, and the first words out of his mouth are to question the whereabouts of Billy. 

“It looks like he’s started to drink,” Horne replies, indicating to the inside of the saloon where the Korean is clutching a bottle like his life depends on it.

“All right. Well, anybody else want to leave, now’s the time. No one’ll hold no ill will towards you.” 

“What about you?” Vasquez asks the silence, studying his cigar as he rolls it between his fingers. 

“I…” Sam hesitates, “I believe I’m gonna see this through. These people deserve their lives back.”

“I have nowhere else to go, so I’m in.” Vasquez states with a shrug.

“I knew that tomorrow was gonna be a dark day, and now that there’s one less of us it’s gonna be darker… But to be in the service of others, with men that I respect, like you all… Well I shouldn’t have to ask more than that.” Horne offers. 

Faraday watches Vasquez put the cigar back in his mouth, before looking up at Sam. He wants to say that yes, he’ll definitely stay, but the words are stuck in his throat, as if he knows they could be a lie. Worry is painted on his face, he knows that, worry and fear, and he wishes he could make them go away. He turns his attention back to his cards, drawing one from the top and pushing it back into the middle of the deck, because he’s afraid of what answer might escape him if he opens his mouth. 

Chisolm turns,walking off in the same direction Robichaux fled moments ago, just as the crowd in front of the church begins to disperse. Faraday stands, pocketing his cards and moving to the end of the porch to get a better view of the retreating figure, who disappears into the darkness of the half-burnt building. If he believed in churches and what they stand for he supposes he would go there too, and pray not to die, to come out alive with everything he holds dear, but he’s never found any comfort in them, so he doesn’t. 

Instead he takes off, although he doesn’t realize he’s running until he’s nearly reached his destination. The corral is in his sights, his dearest friend looking up at him as he approaches. Faraday doesn’t take the time to find the gate and open it, instead climbing the fence, and jumping off when he reaches the top. He doesn’t stop until a soft nose is nudging him and he can rest his forehead against a furred one. Those might be tears running down his cheeks, and he might be taking in shuddering breaths, but he doesn’t care, he’s more frightened than he’s ever been in his entire life, more even than when he was just a child and left to face the world all alone. He’s so torn between leaving that very instant and staying, to face what feels like certain death. His hands are frantically running through fur, and he can’t stop the emotion pouring out of him. He whimpers, “Oh, Jack,” like a mantra as the tidal wave of emotion threatens to drown him. He’s scared for himself, scared that he’s making the worst decision of his life, but he’s also scared for Jack, because his stupidity might get his dearest family member killed. He can’t even begin to fathom a life without the horse that’s been with him for so long and through so much. 

His gut is telling him to hightail it out of there and never look back, to just save himself and be content with what he had before. But was that really a fulfilling life? Was he actually happy gambling for his next meal and running off when he cheated the wrong person? What about all the nights alone with only a bottle to keep his nightmares away? Maybe it doesn’t have to be that way anymore, maybe he can have someone there to hold him at night and wake next to in the morning, someone that makes him feel loved and wanted in a way Jack never can. If he makes it out of this alive, that is, but is the chance for that kind of happiness worth risking it all?

“What should I do, Jack?” He whispers, and the horse nickers. Faraday breaths out the slightest of chuckles, pulling back to look Jack in the eye, but his horse’s attention is focused over his shoulder. 

“Leaving so soon, güero?” Comes a voice behind him, one he isn’t sure he wants to hear right now. 

He turns to look at the man, who’s not more than seven steps away, but before he can utter a single word Jack brushes past him and takes a few long strides towards the Mexican, his ears pinned back in warning. Vasquez only puts his hands up in a gesture of peace, Spanish rolling off his tongue in a soothing whisper, and Faraday’s horse does something completely unexpected; he puts his nose against an open palm and lets the Mexican pet him. Faraday is completely dumbfounded for a moment, it’s like his stallion has turned into a kitten before his very eyes. Never once has that horse let another human near him, and yet now, of all times, he’s decided it’s acceptable to be petted by a complete stranger. Well, not a really a stranger at all. 

“I think you broke my horse,” His voice quavers, even though he tries his hardest to keep it even. 

Vasquez huffs a laugh in response, but doesn’t smile. “Are you?” The man asks after a pause.

“Am I what?”

“Leaving,” the Mexican murmurs, his eyes focused on Jack.

Is he going to leave? He watches Vasquez petting his horse, the only other person to ever be able to get so close and not come away with an injury, and maybe this was the sign he was looking for. There is a small chance that they could all make it out alive, and he thinks that whatever the outcome, it might be better than leaving now and trying to pretend that nothing’s changed, that he hasn’t changed. 

“Come on, let’s get some sleep.” It’s as close to an answer as Faraday can give.

 

He barely slept, if he even did all, his mind was racing through every terrifying scenario it could conjure about the day ahead, but the urge to leave didn’t resurface at all in the night. He’s made his decision, and now he’ll stick to it. 

Outside the window he can hear the town stirring, but he isn't sure he can make himself get up. Vasquez is awake beside him, staring off at some spot on the wall, so he figures now is as good a time as any to bring up his only request. 

“I want you to have Jack,” He blurts out. 

The Mexican only looks at him, his eyes filled with uncertainty.

“If I don’t… If something would happen… take care of him.” Faraday’s only answered by silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I probably should have proof read it another time, but I'll get to that later. 
> 
> Just so you know the next chapter will definitely end on a cliffhanger, because I can't resist. 
> 
> Anyway, comments are always appreciated, hope you're enjoying everything so far.


	11. I've Always Been Lucky With One-Eyed Jacks

Waiting is the hardest thing he’s done all week, and that’s counting the day and a half he spent digging trenches. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if there was someone here to wait with him, someone he could say absolute nonsense to just to distract himself for a while, but he’s alone, standing under the roof of a three sided shed filled with farming tools. So instead he smokes, one after another until he’s only got one more left in his pocket, which he decides to save; he’ll definitely need it for afterwards.

He can see the church from where he stands, although most of his view is blocked by a small house, but he can easily pick out the steeple and half of the roof. It calms him a bit to know Vasquez is just over there, not all that far away, but he would feel better if he could actually see the man. Faraday almost regrets picking to be out here, but he had been more focused on getting to blow shit up than having company; he shrugs off the thought, there’s nothing he can do about it now. 

The church bell rings, a warning that Bogue and his men are in sight, and an eerie silence surrounds Rose Creek as the sound dies out, not that it hadn’t been silent before, but now it feels unbearable. A part of him wishes they could get this whole thing started with already, while another hopes the fight never actually comes, and he’s not sure which he’d like most right now. He tempts a peek around the side of his little building, trying to gauge how much time he does have, but he can only barely make out a line of riders in the distance, which doesn’t give him a very clear idea. This is it, this is his last chance to leave, but he’s gone through with it this far, and he doesn’t think he could back out now if he tried. 

The sound of hooves is like thunder, a rolling wave of noise that slowly escalates, and he would almost swear he can feel the ground shaking slightly beneath his feet at the sheer volume of horses charging towards him. He doesn’t play his part until the men in the trenches have set off their dynamite, but it seems like that moment will never come. Waiting is just horrible, it gives him too much time to think; time to think about all the death to come, all the men that will die by his hand. If he does make it out, he know’s they’ll haunt him, like they always have. He only ever kills out of necessity, and this is no exception, but a noble cause doesn’t make him feel any better about it. That saloon better have enough whiskey left to drown a horse, because he’s going to need one hell of a lot to make it through the night. 

Finally twin explosions fill the air, and it’s nearly his turn. The shrieks of horses echo around the fields from those caught in the fight, and it makes him physically hurt to hear their cries. Those poor creatures never asked for any of this, never asked to be blown to bits or shot at, they shouldn’t be a part of this battle, but they are. He’s only happy that Jack is safe, kept away from all the gunfire and explosives. 

Shots are ringing out, as the real fighting starts, and his heart begins pounding ferociously in his chest. He’s excited, scared too, but the fear can’t even begin to compare to the intoxicating rush of exhilaration coursing through him. He sticks his head out again to check where the riders are, but it’s almost impossible to see anything through the clouds of smoke caused by the explosion, although he can just make out the outline of some riders approaching, nearly there, but not close enough yet. He hides himself back behind the thin wall of wood, taking a last, long drag from his cigarette before throwing it to the grass and stomping it out. He pulls out Ethel and Maria in preparation, studying them both in his hands for a heartbeat or two, before he takes a deep breath, holding it in for barely a second, and letting it out in a rush as he steps out from his hiding spot. 

There are two men riding straight at him, and he fires off a shot at each without a second of hesitation, hitting them both near the center of their chests. He twirls around and bolts to his next spot, trying to reach it before any riders get close enough to shoot at him. He encounters a few of Bogue’s men on the way to his little wall of stacked wood and sandbags, but he takes care of each one swiftly and efficiently. 

Finally, he gets the chance to blow something up, and his hands itch to push down the plunger of the detonator, but he has to try to get as many men with the blast as he can, so he waits until a group of them are riding past the windmill, and he slams the handle down, ducking behind the sand bags to avoid any flying debris. That was definitely worth all the waiting.

He grabs the rifle he put there ahead of time, firing off a shot or two before the men from the trenches are running by with at least four riders flying behind them. He aims at the bottle filled with explosive liquid hanging from the building ahead of him and fires, watching as it flies into a million pieces in every direction. He picks off any remaining men he can see with the rifle until it’s empty, and draws Ethel and Maria again. 

Faraday runs towards the church, through grass tall enough to reach his elbows, meeting up with the men escaping the trenches. He shoots at three more people as he runs along, his comrades telling him to get to the safety of the church, although the only voice he pays any attention to is Vasquez, who yells, “Hurry güero, ándale.” 

He’s turning around, checking for any more men behind him, when a searing pain lances through the right side of his lower chest, just under the ribs. He clutches it in pain, a strangled noise escaping him. 

“Güero!” Vasquez yells, storming out of the church with pure fury written all over him. 

Faraday pushes himself to his feet, a hiss of pain escaping through clenched teeth. He holds his wound as he makes his way over to the church, casting a look over at the Mexican, who is rattling off Spanish and shooting the man that shot him repeatedly, until the asshole lands in a conveniently placed coffin, very much dead. He huffs out a laugh, only to feel renewed pain coursing through him. 

When his back is pressed against solid wood he leans his head back, letting out a breath, before looking down at his wound, lifting away a blood covered hand. He doesn’t have time to worry about the pain or the red seeping from him much too fast, he needs to reload Ethel. He’s fumbling with the bullets, his hands shaking a bit, and he hears Vasquez asking, “You okay, güero?” 

That’s funny, is he okay. No, he’s nowhere near okay, this one bullet will probably kill him slowly, but he can’t bring himself to say anything other than, “So far, so good.” 

Vasquez stays outside the church, shooting at men as they approach, and he wants to fight at the Mexican’s side, so he yells, “I’m going,” before rushing out onto the street. 

He shoots Ethel until she clicks empty and picks up another firearm from the closest body lying on the street. Each jar of the gun as he shoots sends spikes of pain coursing through him, and it hurts to breathe, but dammit he’s not going to quit yet. He edges closer to the Mexican, until they’re back to back. It’s reassuring to feel Vasquez behind him, and he knows he’s leaning on the man a little harder than he should, but he can’t help it. 

“Keep shooting, güerito,” Vasquez yells directly behind him.

He hears shouting, a voice he wasn’t sure he was ever going to hear again, but low and behold Goodnight is riding towards them, shouting about a gatling gun. The support behind him leaves, and the Mexican is telling him to hurry again, to get inside the church. He fires off another shot, before he begins to run, as fast as he can in his injured state, towards the relative safety of the church. Faraday’s just barely gotten down behind some sandbags lining the wall when gunshots start to hit, going through the wood and flying into anyone that manages to get in the way. He’s trying to reload Maria again when Vasquez receives a hit to the left arm, blood staining his white shirt. Anger rages through him, but there’s nothing he can do to stop the barrage of bullets, so he crawls his way over to Vasquez. He’s not concerned about getting hit himself, his only focus is stanching the blood flowing from the man. Faraday undoes the paisley bandana around his neck and ties it around the Mexican’s wound. Vasquez only looks at him, not saying a word, but he can see the fear he feels reflected in the man’s eyes.

“They’re reloading, stay down! Stay down!,” Goodnight hollers the minute the bullets have stopped. 

Faraday glances out of the closest window, trying to see the extent of the damage caused by the gun, but his attention is drawn to the general store, where the children are hiding in the basement, and he notices the fire. 

“The children!” he exclaims, getting to his feet and running out into the street, uncaring about the threat to his own life. He has to make sure they have a chance to get out, before they burn to death cowering under the floor. 

He bursts through the back door, surprised to find Sam already within the building, telling him, “We’ve gotta get these kids outta here."

Faraday has to hold onto the nearest table for support, while Chisolm opens the trapdoor to the small basement and starts telling the people inside to hurry, because the time they have before the gun is reloaded and firing again is so short. He hopes they can make it somewhere safe, without encountering any gunfire. He moves back to the door he entered, checking for any men outside, to ensure the children have the safest route possible. His eyes scan the streets as the little ones run, along with some women, until finally they’re all gone. He’s happy he didn’t have to shoot any men in front of them; if they’re lucky they won't have to witness much of the carnage, if any at all. They follow the kids to the edge of the town, watching as they disappear in the grass and head to the ridge line like Chisolm directs them to. 

Faraday and Sam are nearly back to the church when the gun is firing again, and they duck behind a building, hoping it will offer them enough cover. He can see to his left that the church is being hit with another round of bullets, and he hopes Vasquez is safer this time than the last. Bullets slam into the wood alarmingly close to him, and he vaults himself closer to Sam, who seems to be in a somewhat safer spot. The shooting has suddenly stopped; he’s positive it didn’t last as long as the first round. Pain lances through him, and he grips his wound, resting his head against the coffins at his back and taking in three even breaths. 

“You alright?”

He pulls away his hand, looking at the fresh blood coating it, before replying, “Hell yeah. So far, so good... I might need a new vest,” He tries to joke, but even he can’t laugh at it. “Damn, we gotta do something about that gun.” 

Sam doesn’t say anything for a moment, his eyes scanning Faraday’s wound. “Hey, you know what, we’re even, for the horse. You don’t owe me anything”

His lips curl up in the smallest of smiles, and maybe it’s because, of all times, Chisolm decides now to relinquish the ownership of Jack, but mostly it’s because he has a plan. Although it isn’t much of one, only a half formed idea that popped in his head merely a second ago, but it’s the best thing they’ve got at the moment, and if somebody doesn’t do something soon they’ll all be dead. 

“Well you owe me,” Faraday’s voice isn’t as even as he’d like it to be.

“What’s that?” 

“Cover,” Sam meets his eyes, and the look they share holds more words than he could ever try to voice right now. 

They charge out onto the street, picking off anyone that gets in their way. Ethel clicks empty, and he goes to sheathe her, but she falls to the dusty street instead of sliding securely into place. He glances down at her, lying there in the dirt, but as much as she means to him, he can’t take the time to pick her up; there’s something he has to do, and he can’t waste a single second. 

He charges into the church, his eyes immediately drawn to Vasquez, who has just shot a man off his horse. Faraday knows time is of the essence, and he really needs to get his ass out to that gun before it starts firing again, but he needs to do this. Really he should have done it days ago, but there’s no point kicking himself over it now. Faraday doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of the Mexican, and grabs him by his bandana with his bloodied hand, pulling him in for a kiss. It’s not the best one he’s ever given, he knows that, it’s too hard and all too urgent and not in the good way, but it’s the best he has to offer right now. There are volumes of words stuck in his throat, but he can’t say them, and there isn’t the time, so this will have to do; one kiss in the daylight when they’re both sober, to say ‘I love you.’

He looks up into those familiar eyes as he breaks away, just for one second, before he relinquishes his hold on a white bandana that’s now been smeared with his blood, and runs as fast as he can. He slings himself up in the saddle of the first horse he sees, trying not to yelp at the pain that goes through him when he lands up in the seat. He spurs the horse towards the gun with his fiercest kick, and the beast bolts away. 

“Ándale, güero!” Vasquez yells as he takes off. He can’t help but think the man wouldn’t be so encouraging if he knew what Faraday’s plan is, but there’s no reason the Mexican needs to find that out just yet. 

They ride like hell, the wind whipping his face as he pushes the horse faster and farther. Maria is in his right hand, only three bullets left in her, but he’d never have a hope of picking off the men one by one anyway. Bullets fly by him, and he glances over his shoulder to find riders chasing him, but they steadily fall from their mounts to the grass. He sends a thankful glance towards the church steeple, where he knows Goodnight and Billy are picking off the men tailing him, before he turns his attention back to the gun, and the line of men standing with it. Each rolling gait of the horse is agony, and the animal isn’t going nearly as fast as his Jack can, but he’s happy this horse isn’t his. As much as he’d like his last ride to be on the best horse he’s ever had, he wouldn’t want to put him through this; he couldn’t bear to see him hurt by a stray bullet. Another look over his shoulder tells him only two riders are left, and one slips from his horse before Faraday returns his attention to the men ahead. The gatling gun renews its assault on the town, and he urges the horse faster, whipping it with the tail of the reins and kicking harder than he ever has; he feels a little guilty about it, but he needs to go faster, and the wellbeing of one horse isn’t as important as stopping that goddamn gun. 

He’s close enough now that he can fire at the men, and he picks off one easily, only to be caught in a rain of bullets. Most of them miss, thankfully, it would make all the pain he’s endured thus far pointless if he can’t complete his mission. Fresh pain explodes in his leg, and he can feel blood starting to soak his pants, a warm trail of it slowly running down the inside of his calf. It makes it hard to stay on the horse, the pain radiating though him with an intensity so great he bucks back a bit in the seat, but he’s still got the reins in his hand, and he needs to get closer. He fires back, successfully hitting another of Bogue’s men. Faraday is nearly there, so, so close, when a barrage of bullets flies at him, and two lodge themselves in him. A hit to the right arm and one on his opposite shoulder. It’s impossible to hold on and stay upright, he can only vaguely feel himself let go of the reins and drop Maria as he tumbles off the back of the horse, which continues to gallop away. 

He hits the ground with an intensity that forces all the air from his lungs. The sky is so blue, a bright beautiful blue with big puffy white clouds above him, and he can only stare up as he tries to regain his breath. He could lay here, just lay here and slowly bleed out, but he’s so close. This is it, isn’t it, he is actually going to die out here; of course the bullets could be the death of him, but what he has in mind for that gatling gun probably will be.

He pushes himself to his feet, in what may be his last surge of energy, trying to ignore the screaming pain in his right side. He limps towards the cart with the gun, an arm going to hold one of his many wounds. He must look quite a sight to the men, but that doesn’t matter, he just needs to survive a few more steps. Well, more than a few, he’s farther away than he would have liked, twenty, maybe thirty paces, although his vision is starting to swim, so he may be wrong. He watches as one man raises a rifle, pointing it straight at him, and closes his eyes in preparation when he hears the gun ring out. The bullet goes through his left leg instead of somewhere important, and he grits his teeth as he falls, trying not to let a shriek of pain escape his lips, because he won’t satisfy these men with the sound of his pain. He can’t help but fall to the ground, face first, but he catches himself on an elbow, and pushes himself up to sit back on his knees. He hisses in pain, even though he’d like to scream with it, and tries to breathe, focuses on taking in fresh air. Faraday can’t look up at the men in front of him, because he doesn’t want to watch the bullet that will end it. His hands fumble for his last cigarette, there is no flourish left in him, it’s hard enough to just keep himself awake. He slowly raises the half broken thing to his lips, letting his fingers slide down the length of it when he has it securely held between his lips. Next he tries to light a match, once, twice, but he doesn’t seem to have any coordination left, his movements are shaky and his injured arm feels as if it’s on fire. 

Faraday doesn’t notice the approaching man until he’s nearly in from of him, wordlessly offering to light his last cigarette, and he just barely keeps himself from smiling. He watches as the man with the eyepatch takes two steps back and raises his gun directly at Faraday’s head, slowly pulling back the hammer. Faraday’s nearly accomplished what he set out to do, he just needs to find a way to not get his brains blown out, so he does the only thing he can; slumps forward and feigns death. It isn’t hard to pull the cigarette from his mouth before he falls, holding it to the dynamite’s fuse so it lights. The actions are painful, but he does them nearly as quickly as he would uninjured, because he has no choice. He sits back up again, a smile curving his lips, because he’s won, thank God he’s won. He can’t resist saying, “I’ve always been lucky with one eyed Jacks,” just before throwing it towards Bogue's men with everything left in him. 

The seconds are stretching into eons as the explosive soars towards its target, and he’s not really preoccupied with his imminent death, he’s thinking about Vasquez. This was for him, he sacrificed himself to save a man he loves, because the first wound would probably have killed him anyway, although he’d sacrifice himself a thousand times over, go through all the pain and so much more, if it meant keeping that man safe, so he can live out his life. It hurts to think about missing out on a future with the man, because he’d have liked to wake up beside that Mexican for the rest of his life, to have the opportunity to grow old together. He wishes he could spend a lifetime with Vasquez, but he can’t, because he’s giving his last breath to save the one person he let into his heart. His last thoughts are of that smile, half hidden in a dark beard, and those almost black eyes crinkling at the corners as he laughs; it’s the most beautiful thing Faraday's ever had the privilege to witness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was fun, huh? Idk how great it is, I absolutely despise writing action scenes, I find them immensely difficult. I know that was like the most predictable of cliffhangers, lol. 
> 
> I'll try to get the next chapter up tomorrow, because I highly doubt I'll finish it yet today, but we'll see. 
> 
> Comments are certainly appreciated.


	12. Güerito

He looks over his shoulder at flames licking the sky, fear enveloping him like a blanket, and he’s trying to run, hoping to escape the chaos. Hiding in some brush a short distance away offers him enough cover, and he watches as men burn the village, wicked grins illuminated by the fire. Maria had woken him, scooting him out the back door and telling him to run before he was awake enough understand what was even going on. She said that they would follow, but none of his family has come out of the house, and he’s terrified for them. He can only watch as everything burns around him, each and every building ablaze while angry men shout at anyone that emerges from the burning structures, beating them, or worse. He wants to look away, but he can’t, and tears are flowing down his face in a constant stream of despair. It takes everything in him to keep any sobs from escaping his lips, but when Maria is dragged onto the street, and men hit her for their amusement, a strangled noise comes out without his consent. His little hands come up to cover his mouth, but the sound’s already been let out, and one man hears him. The man is tall, so tall and pale like a ghost, and the boy runs, runs as fast as his little legs will take him, but he can hear the man behind him, coming up faster than he could ever hope to run away. Big arms wrap around his waist, and he’s not touching the ground anymore, screaming and trying with all his might to get away, but he can’t, the man is just too big. A hand clamps his mouth, but he bites it hard enough to break skin, and is dropped to the ground. The child doesn’t even have enough time to get up before a booted foot is repeatedly hitting him. Over and over it makes contact, and curling into a ball doesn’t do much to help, because the hits keep coming, and he’s begging for the man to stop through his cries of pain. 

His eyes fly open, immediately darting around, trying to figure out where he is. Vasquez realizes he isn’t being beaten within an inch of his life in the dirt, but instead is in his shared room in Rose Creek. His heart, which had been beating frantically in his chest, begins to slow, and his breathing is returning to normal. It’s been weeks since he’s had that nightmare, and he certainly wasn’t missing it. 

He pushes himself off the bed he had been laying against and sits up in his chair, taking a deep breath and running a hand over his face. It’s been a long day, and he’s exhausted, but he hadn’t meant to fall asleep earlier, and he’s going to attempt to stay awake now. 

 

 

The explosion is entirely unexpected, and every head turns to look at the great plume of smoke rising up where the gatling gun used to be. He smiles to himself; they’ve nearly won. Very few of Bogue’s men are left in the town, if any remain at all, and now without the gun firing at them in the distance there’s nothing to worry about. 

He moves over to a window that gives him a better view of the grey cloud, and watches intently for a rider to come heading back towards them. He waits, and waits, but as each second passes terror builds in him, and sinks like a rock to the bottom of his stomach. There’s no way Faraday would have sacrificed himself, is there? No, impossible, he’ll come riding back any second, any second now… Vasquez runs from the church, hopping on the first horse he sees and riding like hell towards that ominous smoke, which has yet to dissipate. He isn’t sure what he’ll do if he doesn’t find the man intact, or alive, but he tries not to focus on it now, he just needs to find the gambler. 

“Güerito!” He yells, praying for a response as he jumps off the horse and begins to search. 

Nothing, there isn’t a single sound. Some body parts are strewn about, but none that belong to his güero, at least he hopes not. There, just a few feet off, he sees one mostly in tact body, and rushes over, only to find it isn’t Faraday. Vasquez almost loses hope, but further off he can see another, and he has to check. 

His breath catches when he gets closer, and indeed he’s found the man he was looking for. He kneels beside Faraday, hands reaching out immediately to pull the body up off the ground and into his arms. There’s blood all over him, so many more bullet holes than there should be… 

The murmur of voices wakes him, but they’re not in the room with him, they’re coming from at least one or two over. He stands, walking to the only window so he can open the curtains to let in some light. The sun is just starting to rise, setting the sky alight with light shades of pink and yellow. He’s tired, even after the two naps he tried not to have; it’s a struggle just to keep his eyes open, but he wants to be there if… when Faraday wakes up. He turns to look at the bed, watching the shallow rise and fall of the man’s chest as he lays there. Vasquez’s eyes wander over the stark white bandages clinging to his fair skin. The blanket on him is pulled halfway up his chest, but the Mexican knows the gauze extends down the man’s shoulder to just above his stomach, where it encircles him. There are two additional bandages lower, on each leg; the left closer to the knee, while the right one is more in the middle, and yet another is near the top of his right arm. 

Faraday’s lucky none of the bullets shattered bone, really it’s a miracle he’s alive at all. The doctor was shocked to find him breathing when Vasquez brought him in, a dead weight in his arms. He had been directed to take Faraday up into the room they shared, because the doctor didn’t want him moved afterwards, afraid the stitches might reopen. It had felt like forever waiting for the doctor to finish, leaving Vasquez to pace in the hallway just on the other side of the door, until Faraday was clean and bandaged. 

He sighs, reaching for a cigar from his vest pocket, but he doesn’t have it on, or his shirt. The night before the doctor had wanted to look at his injury after Faraday had been tended to, and Vasquez hadn’t seen any reason to put the articles back on after the fact. He moves over to where his clothes are laying in a heap by the bed, picking out a cigar and his tin of matches. He grabs his shirt while he’s there, slipping it over his head as he walks back to the window. 

 

 

People come in throughout the day; the doctor, Sam and Red Harvest, even Emma and Teddy. They all give him worry filled looks, asking if he’d like to go rest or any number of other things, but he stays, refusing to leave Faraday’s side. Food is brought to him at some point, but for the first time in his life he doesn’t feel like eating. He just watches, holding a limp hand in his own, and praying for those emerald eyes to open. 

It feels like he’s dreaming, and some part of him hopes he could just wake up to find himself cuddling with Faraday instead of waiting to see if he dies, but Vasquez knows it certainly is not just a dream, the pain radiating through his arm each time he so much as moves it proves that to him. Although this might just be hell; maybe he’s died and he’ll spend an eternity watching the barely visible rise and fall of the chest in front of him, his heart threatening to shatter into a million pieces each time he thinks it’s stopped… He needs to try to focus on the positive, but it’s so hard, here basically alone in the semi-darkness of the room. 

Vasquez leans over the bed from his seat, his forehead gently resting on Faraday’s wrist, right above where their hands connect. “Por favor despierte,” he breathes into the silence around him. 

 

 

Faraday trips onto his lap, a laughing drunken mess, who doesn’t seem the least bit disturbed by landing right on top of Vasquez. He tries to push the man off, but he refuses to be moved, and the Mexican can’t do much more than wait for him to get up, but he doesn’t. The Irishman lays across his lap like he’s meant to be there, and his mishap seems suspiciously intentional, but Vasquez is almost entirely certain Faraday doesn’t have enough of his wits left to make any sort of plan, not to mention successfully carry it out. 

The man in his lap squirms around as he continuously talks to the others, spouting out mostly nonsense, and it’s slowly getting on the Mexican’s nerves. He would launch Faraday to the dirt, but he’s not feeling that mean, not yet anyway, and he would be lying if he said it isn’t more than a little arousing to have the drunkard on him, but that’s what makes his squirming so annoying. 

“Stop moving,” Vasquez growls into his ear, low enough that only Faraday can hear him. 

The man stops talking for a moment, turning to look the Mexican in the eye. His face is the perfect picture of innocence when he asks, “Why?” That is, until one side of his mouth curls up into a smirk. 

Vasquez suddenly shoves him off with all his force, laughing as the Irishman lands unceremoniously on his face, although he manages not to let a single drop of whiskey fall from the bottle clutched in his hand, which is slightly impressive. 

“Hey, what was that for?” Faraday demands as he gets up and brushes himself off. 

“Don’t play stupid,” The Mexican tells him. 

“I don’t think he has to play at all,” Goodnight remarks, and they all burst into laughter, even Faraday. 

When their amusement has subsided, Chisolm comments about the hour and getting some sleep, and most of them murmur their agreement. Vasquez knows he certainly would like the rest, especially since he won’t have to watch his back for the first night in a very long time. 

He’s just laid down on his side when he hears someone behind him, and turns just in time to see Faraday laying down next to him. “Oh, no, no, no,” He says, turning to push the man away from him. While he might have let the Irishman sit on him for a while, he certainly isn’t going to let Faraday sleep with him. 

“Why not?”

“No,” He tells the man firmly.

“I’m going to die if I can’t sleep next to you,” He says it with such a serious tone it’s almost believable, almost.

“You will not.”

“Will so,” He pouts; it’s like arguing with a child.

Vasquez’s attention is drawn to Goodnight and Billy snickering together and not at all trying to be subtle about it; he supposes he would find it funny too, if it weren’t happening to him. 

“Sam,” Faraday whines, dragging the name out until he's almost out of breath, when the Mexican doesn’t immediately answer.

“He’s not gonna stop until you agree,” Chisolm tells him. 

Vasquez opens his mouth to protest, but Sam is absolutely right, so instead he sighs in defeat, “Fine, but no touching.”

Faraday immediately lights up, a wide grin splitting his face. Everyone settles down for the night, the chuckling continuing in the background for a few more moments, until it fades away, and the camp is silent, for the most part. Vasquez can hear the stream babbling nearby, and the horses as they swish their tails and softly snort; it’s one of the most peaceful places he’s been in a while. 

It doesn’t take long for an arm to sneak around his middle, which he was mostly anticipating. He would object to the cuddling, but he knows it would just be useless, so he doesn’t waste his breath. There may be a small part of him that enjoys the warm press of another body next to him, although he wouldn't dare admit it. 

The rest of the night he finds it incredibly difficult to fall asleep, because while he doesn’t have to keep his guard up, the man spooning him talks in his ear just often enough to keep him awake.

“Cállate, güero,” He mumbles, he’s too tired to put up with the incessant talking, he stayed up most of the night watching over Faraday, hoping he would… Wait, talking?

He bolts upright, his gaze immediately drawn to moving lips. Vasquez leans closer, trying to make out the words, but he can’t understand them, they’ve grown too soft. His heart is leaping in his chest, and relief floods him; it’s the first time Faraday has said a thing in two days. Although his eyes are still firmly closed, so it can’t be more than chatter in his sleep, but it’s something; it means he’s still in there, and hopefully, that he’s getting better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Por favor despierte - please wake up  
> Cállate - Shut up
> 
> So that took me a while, but I hope the wait was worth it. 
> 
> I didn't proofread it nearly as much as I probably should have, but whatever.


	13. The Others...

Ringing, a ringing in his ears that won’t go away, that’s the first thing he registers; the pain hits him next, with the intensity of an explosion, and he would know, he’s just barely survived one. He swears he aches down to his bones, but he knows he should be thankful he’s even alive to feel it.

Faraday’s eyes flutter open, not quite sure if they’re up to the task, but they manage, and he’s greeted with the sight of a ceiling, a somewhat familiar ceiling, in fact. A groan of pain rumbles in his throat as he tries to shift himself into a somewhat more comfortable position, and he blinks slowly, taking in deep breaths. His eyelids are already drooping, and he’s fully prepared to fall back into a blissful sleep when a voice calls to him, a familiar voice thick with an irresistibly attractive accent, pleading with him to stay awake. Yeah, he guesses he could try, for that voice and the person it belongs to. He forces his eyes back open, reeling a bit at the concerned but still exceptionally handsome face in front of him. Is that a hand on his cheek? It feels good there, a warm comforting weight, hell, he could just doze off right now, but that voice is still pleading and he wouldn’t want to disappoint his Mexican, so he tries to tighten his faltering grip on consciousness, using the strength in him, however little there may be, to stay awake, for now. Vasquez is sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning down over him slightly, and Faraday can’t help but think that it’s almost funny, watching as lips move hurriedly, because he can barely understand a thing coming out of them, but that might be something wrong with him, and not whatever language those delicious lips are spouting off. 

Faraday pushes himself up, pain radiating through him, but before he falls back to sleep there’s something he has to do, and dammit he’s going to do it no matter how much moving hurts. A kiss will make everything better, well not really, he just wants one. He connects their lips, the other man stiffening in surprise for a moment, caught in the middle of a word, but it doesn’t take long for him to melt into it, and the hand on Faraday's cheek ventures to the back of his head. It’s just a light kiss, a slow movement of lips, but that’s all he needed. He slumps back to the bed, a pained noise coming from deep in his throat. Yeah, he’s going back to sleep now, no matter what words are urgently directed his way. ‘I’m fine,’ he would like to promise, ‘It’s just a quick nap,’ but he’s too tired for words, and sleep is welcoming him with open arms. 

——

 

Just a kiss, that’s all it had been, the urgent pull of fingers on the bandana around his neck, bringing him in for something aggressive and insistent and there in the open for everyone to see. A brief look into his eyes, a look full of emerald determination with a hint of regret, and before Vasquez could even get over his momentary confusion Faraday was gone, slinging himself up into a saddle and riding off. 

“Ándale, güero,” He had yelled out the window as the rider flew by; it was at least a response, if not a seriously delayed one. He should have said something, he should have said anything, but it was a sudden kiss that surprised any logical response right out of him. He couldn’t be blamed for not finding something to say while the Irishman was still standing in front of him. 

One of his own hands ventured up to his bandana, pulling at it thoughtfully as he fired off another shot. It was the only place they were connected, and God he had wished they would have had time for more, something more passionate, something more… His fingers pulled away, the tacky traces of blood upon them. He had looked at the dark smudges on his hand, confused, until it clicked; the only place they had been connected, Faraday’s insistent pull that dragged him down for that kiss, had smeared blood on the white material. At the time he could only hope Faraday wasn’t hurt too badly; it would be a cruel thing for that kiss to be their only goodbye.

It isn’t exactly a pleasant memory, but their latest kiss reminds him of the urgent one shared in the church what feels like ages ago. Vasquez looks down at Faraday, studying the planes of his face and the disheveled state of his hair. He trails a hand through the copper mess, his touch light and tentative as he drags his fingers down a sideburn and through beard, cupping the cheek beneath it like he had only a few moments ago when Faraday was awake. The Mexican presses a featherlight kiss to the forehead in front of him, letting out a sigh as he gets up and sits back in his chair next to the bed, gripping a limp hand and hoping he won’t have to pass many more days like this; they’re all blurring into one, and he needs to get some real sleep. Come to think of it, he’s pretty sure he hasn’t been in a bed for at least four days now, and he’d like to amend that soon. 

 

 

That noose, slowly swaying in the wind, is terrifying. He’s been running from them for so long, afraid his neck will meet one sooner rather than later, although he’s hoping it’s never. One mistake has him cowering in fear over a piece of goddamned rope, but it wasn’t really a mistake was it? That fucking man had been beating the kid ruthlessly, for simply stealing a bit of food. Scrawny fingers that should have been plump covering a dark haired head to protect a tiny tearstained face. It made him remember the night his childhood ended, a night he’d rather forget, and the rage that swelled in him couldn’t be contained, no matter how hard he tried. He had pulled his guns before that ranger had any idea what was coming, not that he would have been able to notice anyway, he was too busy kicking and kicking, mercilessly beating someone too small to fight back, too weak to even try to run. It happened so fast, a blind sweep of hatred that had him firing until each gun clicked empty and the ranger was nothing more than a bleeding corpse on the street. 

The child was still curled up in the dirt, and Vasquez had carefully helped him to his feet, shoving most of the money he had into those little hands. Wide eyes looked up at him, full of confusion and fear, but he had merely pushed the kid along, away from the growing puddle of crimson, only then noticing the others gathered on the street. Most of the looks cast in his direction were full of terror; children cowering behind their mother’s skirts, eyes stretched impossibly wide, while the women clutched at their children. The men were mostly resting a hand on their own guns, obviously considering whether or not to shoot Vasquez right on the spot. 

He had hightailed it out of there, faster than he’d ever left any town before, pushing his mare at a punishing pace as they fled, all because he had done what nobody else would do. He’d only been protecting the boy, and maybe it had more to do with anger from his past than the life of someone he didn’t even know, but he has a feeling he’d do it again in a heartbeat, if such a situation arose. 

The memory slams him with emotions he doesn’t like to deal with, but there’s never been regret mixed in there, he has never once regretted saving that boy’s life, and he doubts he ever will. The light pressure of a hand on his shoulder drags him out of his thoughts, making him turn hesitantly to see who’s there, his hand instinctively reaching for his gun, but it’s just Faraday, who’s looking at him with concerned eyes. The Irishman is asking him if he’s okay, but he’s not, Vasquez is nowhere near okay, although he can’t say that, not here, and he’s stuck, not sure how to respond and unsure that he can even move. 

“Vas?” 

He shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the thoughts. He’s perfectly fine, and he tells Faraday as much, offering a small smile that he knows isn’t very convincing, before walking away. A part of him would like to talk about it, to unburden the heavy weight he’s been carrying around, but he doesn’t, and he doubts he ever will. 

 

 

His dreams are threatening to drown him with emotions and memories that he doesn’t need right now, not on top of the worry and uncertainty over Faraday, but he's helpless to stop them. Vasquez is tired, so tired of sitting at the same bedside with only hope to get him through the day. He’s tired of dreams that scare him awake and remind him of things he’d rather forget. But mostly, he’s tired of sleeping slumped over the side of the bed, he wants to feel the comforting press of the Irishman beside him; he even misses all the babbling right in his ear while he’s trying to sleep. He’d give anything for that man to actually wake up, to see him smile and joke and laugh again… 

 

 

“Eh, chingado?” It’s humorous hearing the way Faraday butchers his native tongue, funnier still the serious look on his face, but Vasquez keeps it together, goading, “Say when, güero,” Making sure to pause for emphasis before he lets the slight insult slip out. He tries to make his glare look intense and not let any of his mirth bleed into it, and it must work a little, because Faraday looks honest to God scared, and that makes it all the harder not to burst out laughing, but he doesn’t; he’s had more than his fair share of practice holding in his amusement at white men, and this is the only time it’s ever paid off. Sam distracts them all by talking to some mysterious man hiding beneath a porch, and Vasquez wonders where their little spat could have gone had they not been so rudely interrupted. It’s not like they’d actually gun each other down in the street, but he could have had a lot of fun wrestling that drunkard, and beating his ass too. Yes well, it’s just a missed opportunity, although he might have to make up for it later; can’t be that hard to get the Irishman drunk enough to agree to almost anything, hell, he’s been steadily sipping from that bottle tucked away in his vest all morning. 

The next morning feels like death, a slow torturous death by headache, but it can’t be anywhere near what the asshole next to him feels, because that man could drink a horse under the table. The night before is somewhat blurry, a hurried clash of teeth and tongues while uncoordinated hands tugged at clothing to peel it off and throw it across the room. He was really surprised that the drunk had two in him, hell Vasquez was ready to call it a night after the first time, but the man was insistent, and who was he to refuse. 

Kissing makes his head feel much better, for a moment, and he just had to do it. He knew Faraday probably couldn't remember a blessed thing from the night before, and hell, he barely did either, but he wanted to add a little fuel to the fire, and what better way than a kiss, even if the man ran out before it really got anywhere, but he’d be back; they had to share a room after all, and he knew for a fact nobody else was willing to let Faraday stay with them. 

 

——

 

Consciousness is still painful, even though he had hoped it would be better after a nap, but it’s still better than being blown to pieces, so he’ll take it. There are voices around him, two voices he recognizes over the dull ringing still continuing in his head. His first instinct is to try to sit up, but hands are pushing him back down onto the mattress, and he’d like to bite one of them, but they aren’t close enough. He looks to his right to find Vasquez holding him down, and he levels the man with the best glare he can. He wants to sit up dammit, he’s sure he’s been laying down for long enough. 

The hands decide to help him up instead after he’s glared for a good half a minute, although not without an eye roll from the Mexican, and holy hell does it hurt, it makes him dizzy too; fuck his head is swimming, but he’ll grin and bear it, because he can’t really do much else. His side hurts the most, where the initial bullet had gone through, but that doesn’t mean the pain from his other four wounds is much less. 

Three sets of eyes are insistently watching him, and he looks between them for a minute, not sure what to do, “What?” 

“You’re awake,” Chisolm replies, and he can only huff out a sigh but fuck it hurts, god fucking dammit it hurts. 

“It would seem so,” He grits out, trying to hide the pain. 

Red Harvest doesn’t say a thing, which isn’t surprising. Vasquez is just watching him intently, and would you look at that, the Mexican’s holding his hand, funny, he hadn’t noticed before. 

“The others…” He’s asking before the question even has a chance to really put itself into a coherent string of words. 

He’s only answered by the sad, slow shake of three heads. It’s obvious they aren’t ready to talk about it, and he certainly isn’t in the mood for any gruesome details; he just hopes their demise was less painful than his near one, although he doubts it somewhat, death is usually never that kind. Faraday asks another question or two, but mostly they sit in silence, because he isn’t sure he has the strength for many more words, but he could really use some water. 

Vasquez hands him a glass as soon as he croaks out the word, but his hand is shaking so fucking much he spills a good bit of it on himself, and he can barely hold it up to his lips, but he won’t ask for help. He can do it himself, probably, but Vasquez seems to understand that he can’t ask for any assistance, even when he needs it, because a warm hand closes over his own to help him steady the glass and hold it to his lips. He certainly won’t refuse the help, even if he tries to glare, but it’s probably more of a thankful glance anyway. 

Sam stands from his chair, gently clapping Faraday on the arm, although even the slight touch sends some pain through him, and then leaves. Red only gives him a slight nod before following, and he’s suddenly alone with a man that he nearly died for, and he isn’t quite sure what to say. Thankfully the doctor comes to save him from any sort of emotional talk, spouting off some crap about staying in bed and taking it easy and he should be thankful he survived, it’s such a miracle he survived, he can’t believe Faraday survived, and the injured man tries his best not to pay attention to a damn word of it; he really could not care less. Although if that fucking man says one more goddamned word about his miraculous survival he’s going to punch him square on the nose, no matter how much it hurts to move. 

When finally the man has left him in peace a woman enters, bearing a bowl in one hand, and another glass of water in the other. He’s starving, and the sight makes his stomach growl loudly. Thankfully she doesn’t try to hand him anything, instead giving them both to Vasquez before retreating. 

Faraday lets out a long sigh; he doesn’t want to have to ask, his pride has been wounded enough for one day, but if it came down to it he supposes he would, grudgingly. He turns to the man, hoping the look on his face says, ‘please,’ so he doesn’t have to. 

Vasquez seems to understand, and it’s oddly endearing to watch the Mexican blow on the soup, testing it himself to check that it isn’t too hot, but Faraday would never say as much. Patiently, spoonful by spoonful, he downs the bowl, trying not to look at the other man too much. He can’t wait until his hands are steady again, because he doesn’t know how long he can handle being fed like a child, it makes him feel like a useless burden, and that’s the last thing he wants. 

His belly mostly full, he doesn’t ask for help laying back down, doing it carefully and slowly, even though his arms shake something fierce and his legs scream with pain as he shifts them. When he’s settled he looks at the Mexican, who’s disheveled appearance, that he only now notices, nearly breaks his heart; the dark circles under his eyes say he’s definitely been waiting here the entire time Faraday’s been asleep, and he has a sinking feeling he’s been sitting in that same chair for most of it. 

“Lay with me?” He asks quietly, because he knows the man needs to sleep in a bed, and he’d certainly like the company. 

A smile creeps into that beard, which has definitely grown since the battle, and it doesn’t take more than a second or two for the space beside him to be filled with Vasquez's comforting presence. Faraday may mumble a thank you, sullenly and low enough that it may not even be audible, but the huff of a laugh beside him says that it was definitely heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it's enjoyable, comments are really appreciated.


	14. Oh, Joshua

He wakes to the sensation of hands on him, calloused fingers fanned out high on his back, holding him upright, another around his uninjured shoulder, two more fiddling with something along the top of his stomach and he’s utterly confused. Faraday’s eyes open wearily, glancing around the room while he tries to make sense of the situation. Vasquez is holding him up, the doctor is doing something near his wound, and seconds tick by, but he still can’t figure heads or tales of it all, until he sees the gauze being wrapping around him; he can’t help but grumble to himself about how they could have at least waited until he was awake to replace his bandages. 

When the doctor’s finished he stays to talk to Faraday for a bit, telling him that he’ll sleep quite a lot in the next few days, probably nodding off without meaning to, and the ringing in his ears is only from his proximity to the explosion, and should stop in a week, or a month, if it does at all. He’s also told his wounds are healing nicely, although there will probably be some lingering pain after they’ve completely closed. None of it really matters to him though, he can learn to live with it all; he’s just happy to have made it through, and not lost a limb along the way. Although it certainly doesn’t hurt that he’s prescribed a bottle of whiskey to help him through the pain. 

His day feels like one drawn out dream, and he’s unsure half of the time what’s real and what isn’t. 

At one point he’s riding Jack across a grassy plain, mountains just visible in the distance, the wind caressing his face as they fly towards the rising sun. The sky is bright and clear, brilliant yellow with a smattering of orange painting the horizon, morphing into a deep blue further up. The clouds are wispy streaks of white that look as if they’d be soft as silk if he ran them through his fingers. He takes in a deep breath, closing his eyes and smiling to himself.

Sam comes in just as Faraday is waking from a nap, or perhaps Chisolm woke him, he’s not sure, and Vasquez is lightly snoring to himself in his chair beside the bed, arms crossed over his chest and head drooping. Faraday asks about what the Mexican has been unwilling to share, and is told about how the townsfolk faired, how the other three died and about Vasquez. In fact, it’s mostly about the Mexican; about how he had carried Faraday in himself, brought his unconscious and bleeding body all the way back from the blast, refusing to let anyone but the doctor touch him. The haunted look in those dark eyes for the first few days, when most others had lost hope in Faraday’s ability to survive. How the Mexican barely ate, hardly uttered a word, just sat for days on end, refusing to leave Faraday’s side, almost always holding his hand. It breaks his heart, and part of him hopes it’s just a dream, but the voice in the back of his head is telling him he knows that’s not the case.

Emma surprises him with a visit, Teddy in tow, and it’s just so easy to get under her skin, Faraday can’t help but tease her. She clenches her jaw and balls her hands into fists; it’s obvious she’s trying to be civil, but it doesn’t take her more than ten minutes to storm out. He chuckles along with his roommate at the woman’s actions, noting the way Teddy slowly shakes his head before leaving as well. 

There are other visitors too: the doctor to check up on him again, a woman who graciously mended his clothes, someone to bring him breakfast, which is soup. The first man that shot him, who only glares from the darkest corner of the room, narrowed eyes flitting between Faraday and the Mexican, but he eventually just fades into the dark, like he had never been there at all. A different person comes baring lunch, which is again soup, and he has a sinking feeling it’s all he’ll be aloud to eat for the next day or two. Red Harvest peeks in at some point, offering a nod and leaving almost immediately. 

Even his mother comes to see him, entering with soft footsteps and sitting gracefully in a chair, silently watching him. His eyes wander over her, taking in all the details he can, all the little things he’d forgotten about; her hands are folded nicely in her lap, covered in delicate white lace gloves that only reach the wrist. She’s clothed in the only nice dress she owned, which is cream colored with a light pink flowery pattern, the color so light you almost can’t tell it’s actually there. It’s elegant, and nice, but it’s not her; she belongs in the emerald one that matches her eyes, it was always his favorite. Her hair is falling out of it’s bun, like usual, the wispy strawberry strands framing her face, which seems to be set in stone, unmoving, devoid of emotion and thin. He looks over her again, noticing that she’s frighteningly thin, so thin it’s almost like she’s nothing more than skin stretched tight over bone. He’d almost like to look away, yet he can’t bring himself to, almost afraid she’ll disappear the moment she’s not in his sights. There are a thousand words right on the tip of his tongue, questions that he’d like answered, secrets and fears he’d like to confess, even a thank you or two, but they’re all stuck in his throat, incapable of voicing themselves.

When she moves he watches her curiously, not sure what to feel as she comes to stand right next to the bed. Bone thin fingers reach out slowly, giving him more than enough time to pull away, should he so choose, but he doesn’t. Instead he holds his breath as her touch, colder than death, skates along his arm and down to his hand, where it lingers. 

“Oh, Joshua,” she sighs, the words barely loud enough to be considered a whisper.

Joshua… He hasn’t been called by that name in so long he’s almost forgotten it belongs to him. It brings back memories of a shaking head and a small smile as he’s told he shouldn’t have done whatever childish thing he’d gotten up to. Memories of worn dresses and a sad smile, kind green eyes, yelling men and little money, barely enough food to go between them. It reminds him of tears and a soft caress to the back of his head as he cries, his face buried in fabric worn soft and thin from constant use, the lightest hint of the lilac perfume she used so sparingly it was impossible to smell unless you got that close. The light touch of gentle fingers running over a bruise, a soft kiss pressed to an imaginary wound, all the small embraces and gentle touches between a mother and her child. It reminds him of everything he’s pushed to the back of his mind in the hopes of forgetting. 

He glances between where they touch and her eyes, which hold a wealth of sadness, like he’s looking into algae filled pools of emotion so strong it could drown him. He’s torn between grasping those fingers in his own and pulling away altogether, but she disconnects before he’s made up his mind, turning away and walking towards the door. The back of her dress is ratty and torn where it touches the floor, more like an old spider’s web than fabric. She doesn’t look back, only disappearing through the doorway and into the darkness beyond. 

He opens his eyes, an eerie sadness filling him. He hasn’t once dreamt of that woman since the day she died, and the frosty sensation of her fingers on his arm is a lingering reminder of the odd dream. He’s almost afraid it wasn’t a dream at all, that maybe his mother had come back to haunt him, but that’s silly isn’t it? 

The room is dark and empty, not even Vasquez is with him, who had been a permanent fixture up to this point, directly beside him each time he closed his eyes and opened them again. Figures the Mexican would be gone now, when Faraday can’t stand the thought of being alone. Any other dream, hell even the nightmares of blood and death he could stand, but that was terrifying, and so realistic it scares him.

His heart is beating fast in his chest, fear clouding any sort of rationality. Faraday feels an urgent need for some company, the company of one person in particular, and he isn’t sure he can stand to wait in the shadowy room for the Mexican to return. It’s stupid, really, he knows that, but another millisecond alone will kill him, so he begins to move. 

Faraday sits up, which isn’t all that hard anymore, it hurts still, but the pain has been numbed somewhat by the alcohol he’s been drinking all day. Slowly he moves his legs to the edge of the bed, taking in deep shuddering breaths against the pain. He gently sets his feet on the wooden floor, testing the weight he can put down, almost immediately hissing in pain, but he tells himself that he can bear it, he’s been through worse, he thinks. Faraday takes a deep breath, shaking his head and pushing himself up. 

The world spins, and his legs immediately give out beneath him. Yeah, that was a bad idea, probably one of his worst, come to think of it. Blood floods his mouth, he must have bitten his lip as he fell, and on top of that he can’t even push himself up, all the energy was sapped out of him from such a little thing as getting out of bed… Isn’t that just great; he’s stuck laying on the ground, waiting for someone to come help him. 

The floor against his mostly bare skin is cold, and a shiver goes up his spine, renewed fear coursing through him. He really wishes he wasn’t alone. 

“Help,” Faraday tells the ceiling, the word nothing more than a croaky whisper as it leaves his lips. It really hurts his pride to resort to it, but desperate times and desperate measures or something to that effect. He clears his throat, hoping to be louder this time, but it isn’t much better than the first. 

He’s just about to try for a third time when the hurried stomp of boots echoes through the hallway, the door thrown open to reveal Vasquez, worry written all over him. Those dark eyes scan the room before they land on him, and he must certainly look a sight, sprawled on the floor in nothing more than his drawers and bandages.

Faraday has a feeling he’s going to have to explain himself, which he truly dreads; he isn’t sure he could admit that he was scared to be alone. 

“Querido, are you alright?” Vasquez asks, already gracefully sinking to the floor beside him.

“Have a lot of practice getting on your knees?” Faraday smirks, he really couldn’t resist.

The Mexican shoots him a look that is not even the least bit amused, “Are you hurt?” 

“No, I don’t think so.” It’s mostly the truth, his side hurts a good bit, but he doesn’t think he managed to reopen the wound. 

Vasquez pulls the Irishman up into his arms in the next heartbeat, and Faraday would protest, really, but there’s nobody else here, and he is somewhat fond of being held tight against the Mexican’s chest. He buries his head in the Vasquez’s neck, pressing a kiss to the skin before drifting back to sleep. 

 

Vasquez doesn’t leave his side again, unless there’s somebody else in the room. The flow of visitors drops off after the first whole day mostly awake; the townsfolk are busy rebuilding their bullet-riddled town. Sometimes when it’s quiet he can hear them outside, shouting to each other and moving about in the street. He’s certainly not jealous of all the work they have to do. Although it feels like their town’ll be good as new before he’s even allowed out of his bed. It’s been two days, maybe three, of mostly conscious sitting, and he doesn’t know how the Mexican can stand it, Faraday would have lost his mind by now. 

In the time they have alone they don’t talk about anything that happened, which is simultaneously a relief and a disappointment. He’d sort of like to get some of the feelings off his chest, but he isn’t going to be the one to bring it up, so he doesn’t breathe a word about any of it, and he has a sinking feeling that it might blow up in his face sooner rather than later. He isn’t sure what to call their odd relationship, because he’s never had one like this, well, he hasn’t had many to begin with, but this is just on the other side of friendship, straying into something romantic, and he doesn’t quite have a word for it. To anyone else it could look like the closest of friendships, like that special kind you only find once or twice in your life, but it’s so much more than that. It’s limbs tangled together in sleep to ward off nightmares, a hand in his to squeeze when the pain is too much to bear on his own. It’s his stomach fluttering every time he manages to make Vasquez laugh, and the fond looks he finds directed his way. It’s love, probably, love too stubborn to put itself out there to be acknowledged. On his part anyway. He wonders a lot of the time if his feelings are reciprocated, and some part of him believes they might be, because he certainly knows he wouldn’t wait at someone’s bedside like the Mexican has unless he was wholly invested in them, unless they held the key to his heart. He just isn’t sure though, and that’s mostly why he doesn’t bring it up; he’s afraid he might ruin this, that he’ll say all the wrong things instead of the right ones, and Vasquez will leave, and what would he have then, but a broken body, a wild horse, and a shattered heart? 

 

“I don’t understand why I can’t get out of bed,” He insists, not the least bit prepared to drop the topic just yet. 

“The doctor says no.” 

“Oh, come on, it’ll just be for a little bit. I’m tired of sitting.” He resorts to pleading eyes and a small smile, “Please?” It’s his last move, the only one he hasn’t tried, and he hopes it works. Most people tend to find it irresistible and cute, especially women, but he isn’t sure it’ll have any affect on the Mexican. 

Vasquez narrows his eyes, not moving a muscle for half a minute, before relenting, “Fine.” 

Well, at least Faraday knows he hasn’t lost his touch. It’s hard to keep his joy contained, he hasn’t touched the floor since that first rather disastrous attempt, and he’s excited to be standing, even though he knows it probably won’t feel the greatest. He moves himself to the edge of the bed, waiting for the Mexican to help him stand; he’s tempted to try to do it all by himself, but he knows he would just get yelled at, and that’s the last thing he wants. 

Arms just a shade darker than his own are held out to him, and he lays his overtop, gripping up near the elbow. He breathes out a shuddering exhale as his full weight is put on his legs, which are unstable from disuse and painfully reminding him of the bullets that found their mark. He breathes slowly, grip tightening as he adjusts to the sensation. He smiles though the pain, letting out a short breathy laugh as he looks up at Vasquez; it may hurt, but it’s the most exciting thing to happen to him in a while.The Mexican’s mouth is pulled up in a small smile, his head shaking at Faraday’s reaction. 

It’s the first time he’s really been close enough to notice the deep brown of Vasquez’s eyes, how the they darken towards the center, nearly hiding his pupils. They’re beautiful, the rich mahogany of a dark whiskey before they turn to black. 

Faraday’s own eyes flit down to catch the movement of a tongue tracing his lower lip, leaving a glossy trail behind. It would be so easy to lean forward and kiss the other man, and there are some parts of him that stir to life at the thought, parts that have been very neglected in his convalescence. The thought of a hot mouth on him while he lays in bed drifts through his thoughts, and dammit this is not the time to get excited. He’s just in his drawers, the only bandage left on him the one across his torso, and he suddenly feels exposed, like he should at least have some goddamn pants on. 

“Can we walk?” His voice doesn't come out as even as he'd like it to be. 

“Sí,” Comes an immediate response. 

Faraday focuses on his feet, gritting his teeth against the pain of movement. They’re slow steps, more like the shuffle of someone twice his age riddled with arthritis, but it’s the best he can do right now. The Mexican patiently helps him along, not saying a word about how long it takes him to move each foot forward. 

It doesn’t take long at all for him to tire, and he knows he shouldn’t be pushing himself too hard. 

“Wait,” He murmurs, trying to catch his breath; it’s like he’s run a entire mile, not walked the whole of seven steps. 

He’s lightheaded, and can’t help but rest his head against the shoulder in front of him as he tries to take in air. Maybe it was a bit too early to be up and moving, but he’s going to at least try to finish the little journey without being carried back to bed, again. 

Turning around is difficult, and each step back towards the beckoning mattress seems harder and harder. Faraday doesn’t want to have to stop to rest again, but they do.

“Just two more steps, güerito,” Vasquez encourages, voice kind and soft.

It gives him just enough strength to power through, and as soon as he’s close enough he crashes onto the mattress; he certainly won’t be attempting that again anytime in the near future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent like an entire day or so wondering if it was overkill to have another chapter with dreams, but I had already had most of it written and I wasn't going to start over, so I hope it's not as awful as I had feared. 
> 
> Anyway, I'd love to know what you think so far.


	15. What Have I Done?

Only one day later they try again, because he’s grown restless and tired of his confinement. It’s just a bit easier, but still hard, not to mention painful. They take slower steps than he’d ever admit, but they’re still steps, and it’s getting somewhere, which is as good as it’s going to get for the time being, he supposes. Vasquez never says a thing about stopping or pushing himself too far, which is probably good, because then he’d be determined to do more than he can handle; Faraday’s always been stubborn like that, could never resist trying to prove that he can do what people tell him he shouldn't, although he has a feeling he might listen to what the Mexican tells him, if it’s in the right tone. 

Each slow journey across the floor takes whole minutes, not the seconds it used to, his steps just a quarter of what they were. Seven shuffling steps, nine the next day, until they’ve actually reached a wall. He smiles when Vasquez is backed against it, oddly proud of something so small as crossing a room. 

The Mexican chuckles, the deep reverberations practically vibrating through their touch. Faraday loves to hear that noise, adores watching the way dark eyes fill with laughter and crinkle at the corners; he can never get enough of it. 

Every time they walk he has to resist the urge to kiss the man, and now more than ever. It would be so easy, so, so easy to connect their lips, but that could be a bad move, a horribly impulsive move. So he doesn’t, even though it’s all he can think about. 

 

 

The smile on his face must be infectious, because every time Vasquez looks at Faraday he smiles back. It’s the first time he’s been allowed down the stairs since the explosion, and he’s so excited he could literally piss himself. It’s also the first time he’s really had clothes on in quite some time, and while he can put his shirt on without any assistance, he can’t manage the pants and boots. The Mexican is quick to help, but Faraday makes a point of looking anywhere but where the man is crouched before him, because seeing the Vasquez kneeling there sends a slew of inappropriate thoughts through his head, and it would be a little more than awkward to have an erection right in the man’s face. 

When finally he’s dressed they head out the door, and he just now realizes their room is at the very end of the hall. It takes them much longer than it should to reach the stairs. Were they always so long? It’s thirteen steps, give or take, and the task seems a little daunting, but he’s going to go through with it, because it took him days to convince Vasquez that he was ready for this, so he can hardly back out now. His grip on the railing is like iron, his other hand grasping the Mexican like his life depends on the other man, and in a way it does; it would hurt like hell to tumble all the way down, and he’s certain he would probably wind up breaking something.

He’s hesitant to actually start, looking over at Vasquez in the hopes of… well he doesn’t know what really, there’s a part of him that hopes the Mexican will call the whole thing off so he doesn’t have to, but he’s only offered an encouraging smile. So much for an easy way out… 

He concentrates on slowly descending the stairs, pushing himself to keep going, even when he’s almost positive he can’t go another step. Faraday almost trips twice, but his grip on the railing and the assistance of the Mexican keep him from landing on his face. By the end his legs feel like pudding, threatening to give out under him, but he’s going to reach a chair dammit, because he doesn’t want to crumple to the floor, or worse, be carried there, while others have a chance to watch. He still has some stubborn pride left. 

The closest chair is, thankfully, only four or so steps away, and that’s the direction he heads in. He’d like something to hold onto with his free hand, but Vasquez is on his weakest side, so it’s not like he won’t make it.

Plopping down in the seat, he lets out a relieved sigh, only belatedly realizing the Mexican has left his side. He looks about, noticing a very attractive ass heading towards the bar. Oh, a drink, he could really use a drink after all that work. He watches his roommate, not even bothering to be subtle about the way his eyes slowly trail up and down the lithe body. It’s not like it’s something he hasn’t seen before, hell, he sees it every day, and is curled up against it each night, but he doesn’t usually get a chance to stare from afar. 

The Mexican returns with both hands full, and offers Faraday a glass, which he eagerly takes, quickly downing half before setting it on the table. Vasquez is smirking down at his glass in the seat across from him, and Faraday eyes the man curiously. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” The Mexican’s smile widens.

The Irishman glares, although it has no hatred at all behind it, “You’re an ass.” 

“Maybe," He shrugs, before they both burst into a fit of chuckling. 

It’s nice to have a change of scenery, and he sighs contentedly as he looks around. The place isn’t full, hell he doesn’t think there’s actually anyone else there, which is probably due to the continued rebuilding. He can clearly hear it now that he’s down the steps, even manages to catch glimpses of people as they walk by the entrance every so often, doing this or that, focused on making the place livable again. 

His thoughts wander to Red and Chisolm, who left together two days ago, offering as heartfelt a goodbye as those men are capable. He’s almost sorry the Mexican and him couldn’t tag along, but he has a feeling Sam wouldn’t have waited long enough for Faraday to survive on the trail, even if he had asked them to wait, and while the money could be good, he has a feeling he wouldn't enjoy that kind of life. No, he’s happy to take his time to recuperate, and when he is ready to leave, because he could never imagine staying in a place like this, he’ll probably wind up going with Vasquez, if the man can stand his company. He doesn’t know what he’d do if the man didn’t want him along, actually; it’s almost impossible to imagine it now that they’ve spent so much time in each other’s company. They haven't talked about it, in fact nobody’s asked him about his plans for the future, and the thought of Vasquez up and leaving without him is almost terrifying. 

He looks over to the man in question, finding those dark eyes trained on him; no, he doesn’t think Vasquez would leave him behind, at least he hopes not. Faraday downs the rest of his drink in a gulp or two, relishing the burn that travels through him. He is certainly fond of all the free whiskey he’s gotten out of this whole ordeal though, even if it’s only rotgut. 

“Oh!” Vasquez says suddenly, hands fumbling in his vest pockets before pulling out a crisp deck of cards with a triumphant grunt.

Faraday can only quirk an eyebrow in confusion and glance between the deck and the man holding it.

“Yours were damaged,” Vasquez shrugs, dropping the cards on the table in front of the Irishman. 

He isn’t sure how to feel; there’s a sense of loss tugging at him somewhere, and he really wishes his had managed to survive, he’ll certainly miss them. They’d been with him through thick and thin, gotten him out of more scrapes than he could ever hope to remember, but there’s no use bellyaching over it now, although he has a feeling he might lament their loss later. He picks up the new deck, spreading it out in his hand and admiring them. They really are actually new, they have to be, they’re all in perfect condition. 

“Pick a card,” He grins to his partner, holding them out. 

He’s answered by a deep chuckle and a dark hand reaching out to do as requested. That feeling fluttering in his chest might be happiness or affection or any number of mixed emotions really, because he hasn’t gotten a present since he was little, he can even hazily recall the day, although it’s just the smallest snippet of a memory; wrinkled hands handing him a small brown wrapped parcel, two fond smiles directed his way as he worked furiously to open it. 

 

He wakes in the middle of the night, for no reason at all really, and stares up at the ceiling. The moon is full, or nearly so, because there’s a good amount of light streaming through the open window. 

Vasquez is curled against him, one hand resting on Faraday’s chest right over his heart. He wonders if it’s intentional, so the Mexican can feel it beating reassuringly beneath his fingers, because it’s almost always there when he wakes in the night. 

The other man is breathing steadily beside him, a rhythmic in and out which he always finds relaxing. He’s content to lay there and think to himself in the semi-dark until he’s tired enough to fall back asleep. 

He doesn’t know if he could have managed to survive this whole ordeal without Vasquez. Hell, he probably wouldn’t even be alive if the other man hadn’t gone all the way out into that field to find him, much less haul his unconscious ass all the way back to town. He’s always there, offering a steady arm to lean on, a helping hand when necessary, and he knows deep down there are very few people who would have done the same for him. He doesn’t know what he ever could have done to deserve such a person in his life, but he isn’t going to question it.

One of his hands absently grabs the one resting on his chest, bringing it up to his mouth to press light kisses to each finger. 

“I love you,” He whispers into the Mexican’s skin, so soft he isn’t even sure he’s actually said it aloud. 

 

The sun is warm on his skin, the feeling of it shining down on him almost foreign at this point, since he hasn’t been outside for at least two weeks, if not more. He closes his eyes, breathing in deeply; he never thought he’d miss sunlight so much. The wind is just a light caress against his cheeks, and it’s a perfect day, or maybe it just seems that way because he’s missed so many of them, but he smiles to himself, content to just take it all in for a moment. 

The town is practically bustling around him, but it’s even nice to hear men shouting to each other and the echo of hammers as they continue their ceaseless rebuilding. When he does open his eyes he looks around, noticing that they’ve certainly got a good portion of it fixed up already, but he doesn’t care all that much about how well it’s going. 

While he could be content to just stand there a step away from the saloon’s porch and bask in the sun until his legs give out beneath him, they were heading towards someplace he’d definitely like to go, and he doesn’t want to tire out before he even manages get there. He looks to left at Vasquez, who has been patiently waiting beside him, a smug smile on his stupidly handsome face.

“Oh, shut up,” Faraday grumbles.

It takes five, maybe ten minutes to get to the corral, and his heart is leaping in his chest. Jack is prancing about, well more like running around, his tail gracefully whipping through the air behind him. It makes Faraday laugh, and really he hadn’t expected any less. His horse is probably furious at him, but there was nothing he could do about the duration of his convalescence. Vasquez had been checking up on the horse, apparently, dropping by every now and then to make sure he was doing fine, and to check on his own one as well, but Jack hasn’t been contained like this since he won the horse years ago, and he looks like he could do with a good run, but it’ll be a while yet until Faraday feels up to it, and probably longer still until his roommate will let him back in a saddle. 

Vasquez helps him over to the fence, staying for a moment to ensure that Faraday’s fine, before entering to go spend some time with his mare. She’s a nice one, he supposes, but he doesn’t quite understand how anyone could have a horse as tame as that. Jack comes up to him, snorting and pawing at the ground, thoroughly proving how angry he is. Faraday offers all the treats he has, but it doesn’t seem like the horse is in the mood to be won over with them. 

He would love to actually be in there with his horse, but he’s not strong enough to withstand even the lightest nudge from Jack, and he doesn’t particularly feel like being trampled either, so he stays behind the relative safety of the wood barrier. 

“I’m sorry,” He whispers as he runs his hand over the soft fur on Jack’s nose, the spot that always seems to calm him down. He’s missed his horse, more than he could ever hope to put into words, and he’ll spend a lot of time trying to make it up to the animal once he’s better, but for now he can only offer scratches to his favorite spots and apologies that the horse can’t even understand. 

Jack’s the only important thing remaining in his life, the only family he has left, because his guns have been lost, well Maria anyway, it would be impossible to find her out in the forest of knee-high grass where he dropped her on his ride to blow up the gatling gun. Ethel could probably be found, if he tried hard enough, but he doesn’t know what the townsfolk did with all of the guns they picked off the street, and chances are she’s lost among a plethora of ownerless guns. Even his trusty cards couldn’t make it through this one, although he does have the new pack to replace them, it isn’t the same, he can tell they aren’t his. They’re too perfect, too new and unused, hell, they could easily give him a paper cut, compared to the soft and worn set he used to have. Everything that he once held dear has been lost, except trusty old Jack, and horses don’t live forever the voice in the back of his mind whispers. He has Vasquez though, doesn’t he? Could he count the Mexican as his family? 

He glances over where the man is smiling to his white horse, stroking a hand over her neck lovingly. Maybe, but there’s still a lot of uncertainty where that man is concerned, uncertainty about what will happen between the two of them in the future, because they haven’t talked about shit, and maybe it’s time for Faraday to bring it up. It would be nice to have a plan, or more like a rough idea; if they’re going to stay together, where they’d go, all those sorts of burning questions, and the ones concerning the emotion that floods his chest each time he so much as thinks of the man. While he certainly isn’t one to dwell on the past if it can be helped, he’s heard the rumors about the bounty on the Mexican’s head, and it’s something that could cause them a bit of trouble if they stay together, although it could bring some excitement along with it. 

Jack pushes against his hand, irritated that the scratching has stopped while Faraday’s mind wandered, and he renews his petting, huffing a laugh at his horse’s antics. He’d really love to be able to lay his head against his horse's soft fur and breathe in his comforting scent, but he knows it isn’t possible today.

“I promise I’ll let you outta here soon,” He whispers conspiratorially, because he has no intention of waiting until the Mexican agrees to it.

He’s still got one hand securely gripping the fence when he feels his leg start acting up, and doesn’t have enough time to try to hang on with the other before the damn thing gives out beneath him, and he’s hanging awkwardly from the fence. He would just let go, but it would mean putting all of his weight on the bad leg, and he knows it would hurt like a son of a bitch, so he’s stuck hanging on for dear life until it stops, or Vasquez notices. Faraday can see the Mexican not more than a handful of paces away, but his attention still seems to be entirely focused on his own horse. 

There is no way in hell he’s going to call for help, because there are some townsfolk just a bit away that could definitely hear him if he did, and he’s not willing to risk it, but it seems the Mexican has noticed him, and if that look is anything to go by, he’s much less than pleased at Faraday crumpling to the ground. 

“Come on,” Vasquez says as he goes to help the Irishman up. Well, it’s not like he was going to be able to get up himself, and he should be able to limp back to the saloon if he’s just given a moment to rest. Wait, what is…?

“Oh hell no, you are not carrying me all the way back,” He’d like to yell indignantly, but again he doesn’t want to draw attention, so it comes out as more of an urgent whisper than anything else. 

“Calm down.” It’s the only response he’s offered, and he can’t do much more than grumpily accept his humiliating fate, but Vasquez doesn’t head towards the center of town and the saloon, instead taking him to a bench only a few long strides away, situated snugly against a building. 

Faraday makes a point of crossing his arms over his chest, refusing to look at the Mexican as he’s gently sat down, and while he knows he probably looks like a petulant child he doesn’t really care, he’s thoroughly offended that the man would carry him in such an open and public space.

Vasquez plops down beside him, and Faraday resolutely looks ahead of them, at the corral and the horses prancing about gracefully, it must be so nice to be them, just spend the day eating grass and trotting around, no worries about love and all the other complicated things involved. 

“What’s her name?” He asks, indicating Vasquez’s mare with a nod of his head when he's finished pouting. 

“Maria,” It sounds beautiful rolling off his tongue, much better than when he says it.

“Maria? Your horse is named Maria?” 

“Sí,” Vas is eyeing him curiously.

“My mother’s name was Maria…” Faraday isn’t sure if he’s saying it to himself, or the Mexican, but he doesn’t attempt to stop the words from tumbling out.

“Mine too.” 

It’s an odd thing to have in common, it reminds him of his missing gun and the ghostly dream of the woman that's been dead since he was a child. He’s not really in the mood to be thinking of these kinds of things, he’d been having a rather nice day up to that point.

He’s drawn from his thoughts by a hand grabbing his own, and he looks at it curiously, noting how the fingers threat together with his own, a perfect fit. He glances up at Vasquez, who is focused on something in the distance, probably thinking more than actually studying the scenery that lay ahead. 

Faraday lays his head against the Mexican’s shoulder without another thought, his attention going back to the horses. He could really take a nice nap here, in the partial shade offered by the building, a light breeze and the sounds of horses, a sturdy man to rest against, it’s perfect. 

 

The smell of a cigar draws him from sleep, the familiar scent of the ones Vasquez smokes. The thick foreign scent of them always lingers on the man, even when he doesn’t have one hanging out of his mouth. 

The sun is slowly setting past the mountains in the distance, and it’s breathtaking to see all the colors that it paints on the horizon. He hasn’t seen one in so many days he’d almost forgotten how beautiful they can be. There’s an arm slung around him, which he’s almost sure wasn’t there when he fell asleep, but he’s not going to complain about it. 

He sits up, wiping a stray hand across his mouth, where he can feel a wet trail of drool that’s soaked his beard. He wipes it off on his pants, noting that he’s managed to make a dark stain of it on his partner’s shoulder, which he feels a little bad about. 

“How long have I been asleep?” He asks. 

Vasquez just shrugs, taking in a deep breath of smoke and letting it lazily trail out of his mouth. Faraday’s always wanted to try one of the Mexican’s cigars, and impulsively plucks it out of the man’s hand, figuring it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission. 

He takes a drag, suppressing a cough that bubbles in his chest. It’s some strong shit, much stronger than the ones he usually has, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to stop. He takes another hit, inhaling slower and letting it sit in his lungs, until he needs to let it out to take a breath. It’s good, he’ll give the man that. He inhales once more before handing it back, finding an amused smirk directed his way. Faraday nudges the other man with his shoulder, breathing out a sigh through his nose as he watches the sun slowly sink. It’s been one of the nicest days he’s had in a while, even considering the whole mishap with his leg earlier, and the crickets taking up chirping around him only further the pleasant atmosphere. He could spend a lot of days like this, at least until he’s healed, because while some part of him does love the peace, another part is just itching for adventure and mayhem, like always.

The cigar is held out to him and he certainly won’t refuse the offer. The arm around him tightens a bit, pulling him closer to Vasquez’s side, a hand running lightly over Faraday’s shoulder where it’s situated. Yeah, it’s been a really great day. 

 

He’s finally gotten to the point where he doesn’t constantly need help, but Vasquez still spends nearly every second with him, offering assistance the few times his leg refuses to work. He doesn’t ever try the stairs on his own though, not particularly willing to risk falling the whole way down.

They spend a lot of time playing cards, and it becomes evident that the Mexican is much better at them than he likes to let on, but Faraday still manages to beat him most of the time. He knows it’s entirely his skill and not at all the other man trying to go easy on him, because Vasquez has burst into fits of Spanish cursing on quite a few occasions, and it’s absolutely hilarious to watch. It takes a while of playing to get him to that point though, and if necessary Faraday cheats just to be able to witness it, and it certainly has nothing to do with how beautiful the Spanish sounds rolling off his tongue, no, not one bit. 

The game they’re playing now isn’t such an exciting one, his hand is shit and he’s already used the card up his sleeve, so it’s a welcome distraction when one of the townsfolk comes in. It’s the middle of the day, and a rare occurrence for anyone to not be helping outside, and both players eye the man curiously. He might be the teacher, but Faraday isn’t exactly sure. 

The man takes his hat off as he approaches, wringing it in his hands as he nervously addresses Vasquez. He’s got nothing more to offer than a boring question about whether or not the Mexican can come help them with something big, something that needs another set of hands. There's no way they don't have enough men for whatever it is he's asking Vasquez's help with, but Faraday’s not going to question it, so he just silently sits there and stares down at his cards, pretending they’re more interesting than they actually are. 

When the man is done prattling on, Faraday glances up at the Mexican across the table, waiting to see how he responds. He seems a little torn, chewing at his lip as he considers it, but in the end he agrees. It’s funny, for Vasquez having such an impressive bounty on his head Faraday’s only ever sen him help other people, it makes him wonder sometimes how exactly he came to get the bounty, but he knows better than to bring up something like that; hell, if it was him he knows he’d never want to talk about it. 

Vasquez stands, making to follow the other man as he heads out the door, but he pauses before he’s more than a step away from the table, “You’ll be alright?” 

Faraday waves him off, “Of course.” 

Dark eyes narrow at him, as if they don’t quite believe him, before the Mexican turns and walks away, glancing over his shoulder before he actually exits the building. Faraday dons his brightest smile and waves, chuckling at the eye roll he receives. 

He’s alone, for the first time in a long while, and he just sits there for a few moments, collecting his cards and waiting to make sure Vasquez doesn’t change his mind and come back. While Faraday could have a lot of fun getting as drunk as possible before the man returns, he’s got bigger plans for this golden opportunity, and he’s not going to waste it. 

It’s been three minutes, maybe, when he deems it clear, and stands, holding onto the edge of the table for support to make sure he’ll be fine before he pushes off, heading towards the door. He peeks outside, checking that the Mexican can’t spot him from wherever it is he went, but the coast seems clear, so he sneaks away, well, as sneaky as he can be while limping. There’s something exhilarating about the possibility of being caught, and it makes him positively giddy. It’s the most excitement he’s experienced in a long while, and he loves the way it pulses through him. He’s as quiet and quick as he’s capable, mirroring the way he flees a card game gone wrong, but he’s held back by his leg, which thankfully seems to be holding out so far; it would really put a damper on things to land right here in the dirt and not even reach his destination.

It doesn’t seem possible, but more excitement fills him when the corral comes into sight.

“We’re gonna have to go slow buddy,” He tells Jack when he's finally reached the horse. It’s such a lie he almost laughs at himself; they’re going to do nothing short of race away, and he knows that all too well.

 

He’s just managed to throw the saddle up on his horse’s back when he hears the thud of boots in the dirt behind him, and tries not to visibly cringe as they get closer. He’s waiting for angry Spanish to ring out behind him, but Teddy appears instead, so he’s got nothing to worry about, yet. 

“What’re you doing?” He asks, and Faraday can only shoot him a look that says ‘really? really Teddy, isn’t it obvious?’ He keeps going about what he’s doing, trying to ignore the other man as he checks that the saddle’s secure. 

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” 

“Now Teddy, what would make you say a thing like that?” 

There's a moment of silence before he receives another question, “Does Vasquez know?” 

He levels the man an unamused look, but doesn’t respond. There’s an unspoken ‘Hell, no,’ hanging in the air between them, and he certainly isn’t going to admit it, because the last thing he needs is for noble Teddy to go fetch the Mexican before he’s even had a chance to have a little fun.

Getting his foot up in the stirrup is a challenge, and it takes more effort than he can ever remember needing to sling himself into the saddle, but he manages. There’s barely a second between his ass hitting leather and Jack taking off, and luckily he’s holding on, or he’d be left behind in the dirt. Faraday’s glad he found the opportunity to let Jack release all his pent up energy, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t need this just as much as the horse. It’s so freeing to fly across the earth and away from the little town, to hear the thunder of hooves as they thud against the ground, watch grass and brush rush by in a blur. 

It hits him before he really has a chance to understand what’s going on; a sudden wave of lightheadedness, and he’s falling, the stirrups sliding out from under his feet, as he detaches from his horse and hits the ground with enough impact that he’s struggling to refill his lungs with air. Thankfully he’s landed on his back, and not face first into the brown earth. An eerie sense of deja vu fills him, because it wasn’t all too long ago that he’d fallen from a horse and was left staring up at a bright blue sky, only this time he hasn’t been shot off, which is an improvement, even if it feels like he’s landed on a particularly sharp rock somewhere near the middle of his back. 

As soon as he can breathe regularly again he sits up, looking for Jack, who he spots not too far off. His next move is to stand, but his damn leg has picked now, of all times, to be finicky, and he won’t be able to get up without help, or until it decides to stop, so he’s stuck waiting either way. 

He’s not all that far from town, maybe forty or fifty paces at most, and he can distantly see a crowd gathering; he’s got a sinking feeling that this isn’t going to end very well. There are a million ways it could play out, and a thousand scenarios are running frantically through his head as he waits. 

The Spanish reaches his ears before he can even see the man it’s coming from clearly, and the color drains from his face. That is not a good sign, not one bit. He knew the man would be mad at him, but he didn’t know he’d evoke full blown foreign yelling. He’s only seen Vasquez this enraged once, and it had been while he was furiously shooting a man multiple times. Maybe this whole thing wasn’t such a good idea after all. 

As the Mexican approaches it’s easy to see the fury written all over his face; it’s quite a terrifying sight, if he’s being honest. Words continue to roll off Vasquez’s tongue as he kneels beside Faraday, and while he doesn’t know exactly what he’s being lectured about, he’s pretty sure he’s got the general idea. 

“I hope you know I didn’t understand a damn word of all that,” He says when Vasquez stops talking.

Really he expected him to be angry, although he had assumed it would be more along the lines of a head shaking in disbelief and some eye rolling as the man helped him to his feet, not the unbridled fury, and certainly not a slap to the face. 

His hand comes up to cup his cheek, rubbing at it as the sting slowly fades. “I guess I deserve that…” 

Faraday knows it wasn’t nearly as hard as it could have been, the Mexican had obviously held back from really giving it to him, which is good, all things considered. Really, he could have been punched hard enough to black out, but instead Vasquez had opted to just slap him. 

“Do you have a death wish?” The words are practically spat in his face, and he tries not to flinch at the harshness in them.

“No, I-”

“Qué? Weren’t thinking? What made you decide to take Jack for a ride before you can even go up stairs by yourself? Honestly güero, what did you think would happen?” 

“I don’t… I don’t know, I just…” 

“You just what?!” His dark eyes are blazing, face a few inches from Faraday's.

“God, will you stop mothering me for one second, you fucking Mexican!” 

Vasquez seems taken aback for a mere moment, before his eyes harden and his hands come up in a show of surrender, “Fine, you want me to stop, I’ll stop.” He stands in the next heartbeat, walking away with long determined strides. 

He may have just crossed the line with that one, and Faraday instantly regrets letting the words slip out. “Wait!” 

The man’s steps don’t even falter, and he tries again, louder, but still there’s not even a sign that he was heard. 

He feels empty, and a little lost, not sure what to do. Faraday doesn’t hear Jack come up behind him, and is slightly startled when he feels a gentle nudge to his arm. 

“What have I done?” 

 

Getting to the corral seems to take forever, because he can’t get himself back up in the saddle, and has to limp the entire way there. It gives him too much time to think, and when he’s reached it he feels like he’s about to explode with the emotions running through him. He’s got to fix the mess he’s gotten himself into, right after he sees to Jack. Fuck, he knew this would happen, he needs to learn to think before he speaks. It’s all your fault, the voice in the back of his head teases, and it’s right, this is all his fault, and he isn’t sure he knows how to make it better. 

He isn’t sure what makes him look for Maria as he puts Jack back in the fence, but his heart plummets when he can’t find her. Faraday searches again, just to be sure he hasn’t missed her, and then once more, but she’s gone, and he knows the Mexican has left with her. He has no hope of catching the man, hell, he’s probably been gone for nearly half an hour by now. 

So that’s it then, Vasquez finally decided to take off. It’s for the best, he tries to tell himself, there’s nothing he could have done, but that’s utter bullshit. He’s broken his own fucking heart because he was too stupid to say anything when he had the chance, and doesn’t that just sum up his life. He has no one, and that’s better isn’t it, to not have to worry about anyone but himself, just like always. Yeah... whatever he has to tell himself to make it through the night. 

The journey back to the saloon is slow, and he has to stop a few times to rest, leaning against a building or just hoping to god he doesn’t fall down in the middle of the street, but he makes it, eventually. The townsfolk eye him curiously, but nobody offers him any help, and he wouldn’t accept it anyway. He’s never going to let himself get close to anyone ever again; people are more trouble than their worth. There are tears burning at the back of his eyes, but he’ll be damned if he lets anyone see him cry.

The saloon is empty, thankfully, and he heads straight for the bar, sitting heavily in a chair and picking up the first bottle his hands find. He takes a long swig, wishing it would burn just a little more as it goes down his throat. If he’d just opted to get drunk earlier instead of being an idiot things would be a lot different, but it’s no use dwelling on the past, it’s never done him much good anyway. 

When he’s downed nearly the whole bottle he slams it onto the counter, tears spilling down his cheeks and a sob forcing it’s way out of him. He’ll let himself cry tonight, get all the emotion out while he takes pity on himself, and tomorrow he’ll lock them away and forget he ever knew how to feel at all. 

 

He drinks until the sun goes down, until the townsfolk have turned in for the night and someone tells him he’s had enough, but that ache in his chest is still there, so he hasn’t had nearly enough yet. No, he wants to keep going until he can’t feel a damn thing, because he can’t stand to feel like this, so broken and vulnerable. There’s no hand to hold when pain lances through his leg, no steady arm to lean on, nothing, he has nothing. It was stupid anyway, to think he could have something like that. Sure, they may have had a nice roll in the hay, but that never meant the man had actual feelings for him. No, the past week or so was probably more of an obligation, only caring to watch over him because nobody else would. Well fuck him, fuck them all, fuck Sam and his stupid offer to buy Faraday’s horse. Most of all fuck himself, for not leaving the first chance he got or having the sense to say no in the first place. 

I was right, that voice in the back of his head whispers, you lost everything. He did didn’t he, his guns, his cards, his fucking dignity. He decided it would be okay to open his heart up, and now it’s been shattered, and it’s all his own stupid fault for not stopping it. No, it’s the Mexican’s fault, for being attractive and making him fall in love. 

If he throws a bottle against a wall in a fit of drunken rage there’s nobody there to clean it up, or care, because he’s been alone for hours now, only the dull light of a lamp to keep him company. 

When he falls from his chair he can barely feel it, and he doesn’t bother to get up, because it’s as good a place as any to fall asleep, and he’d never make it up those stairs by himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow so that took a lot longer than I had anticipated, sorry about the wait. It was going to be a lot shorter, but then I came up with that ending and couldn't stop myself. I believe the next chapter will be the last one then. 
> 
> I'd love to know what you think! <3


	16. I'm Sorry

This may be one of the worst hangovers he’s ever had his entire life, each little noise echoes through his thumping head, and pain from even the tiniest hint of light is nearly unbearable, but that was the point wasn’t it, to drink and feel sorry for himself so in the morning he could endure the pain of reality and move on, and since his pity fest is officially over he’ll just have to make it through the pain. He almost relishes it, some cruel part of him convinced that he deserves every bit, and who would he be to disagree? 

He doesn’t want to move, and he has no reason to, so he lays on the floor and tries to fall back asleep, but it doesn’t work. The second he’s better he’ll hightail it out of this miserable little place and all the memories it holds, but until then he can’t do much more than try not to remember, and fuck if that isn’t one of the worst parts. In the saloon, all over town, in his own goddamn room, there are so many memories that linger like ghosts, always threatening to remind him of happier times… no, the worst times. They’re a reminder of his stupidity and his unwillingness to listen to himself, and it’s done nothing but drag him down. 

Well, at least now he won’t have to worry about anyone else, and isn’t that just a relief. He doesn’t ever have to worry about someone liking him or if they’ll stay with him or if he’ll do the wrong thing, because Jack has never held a grudge, and he’s sure as shit not going to get his heart broken ever again.

The most concerning thing is the matter of his guns, because he doesn’t have any anymore, not even the little one he likes to keep well hidden for emergencies, and he’ll have to get a new set. He’ll probably name them Ethel and Maria, even if the latter’s name brings thoughts of a white horse, but it’s for old time’s sake, if nothing else, because it would feel wrong not to have them named after so many years.

Fuck it, he’s not going to be able to drift away to a land of dreams, and maybe that’s good, because without alcohol to make him black out he’d probably have all sorts of disturbing images of dark eyes and tan skin and… no, he’s not going to let himself go there. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, noting the ache in his back that has to be from more than just a night spent on the floor. …Oh, falling off Jack, that painful rock he landed on, that’s probably the source of his pain, and he’d be willing to bet money that it’s a nice and colorful bruise by now. 

He reaches up for the bar, using it to haul himself to his feet, and plops down on the stool he had been occupying the night before, until his tumble to the floor. Breakfast sounds like a damn good idea, and he grabs the nearest bottle, pulling off the cork and chugging a good portion of it. He’ll give himself a few more days to get better, like three, if he can stand to be here for that long, and then he’ll leave and never look back. 

 

The only bad part about the townsfolk being busy with their rebuilding is that there’s not a soul to distract him from his thoughts, and the alcohol can’t exactly make them go away, no matter how hard he tries. 

He gets out his cards, in the hope that a nice game of solitaire or even just shuffling them will be enough to keep himself slightly occupied. Faraday looks at them in his hand, just now remembering that they aren’t the ones he was expecting, they’re the new deck Vasquez gave him. 

He’s tempted to throw them across the room, and raises his arm to do just that, but he can’t bring himself to. It’s because he doesn’t have any, because these are new and they’re his now and it doesn’t at all matter who gave them to him. Yeah, sure, that’s why he can’t seem to let them go. He slips the cards back inside his vest pocket, searching for something else to occupy his hands with. He’s almost tempted to have a nice quick tug, but the last thing he needs is to think about the Mexican while he comes in his own hand, no, he’ll avoid that. Maybe he could find a nice woman that would be willing to go a round or two. Although, something about even the thought of that seems wrong, and he doesn’t want to feel the soft curves of a woman’s body against his, he wants to feel the familiar broad planes of Vasquez, hear that sultry Spanish voice whispering in his ear while they… no. Nope. He is not letting his thoughts go there. 

 

The saloon feels like it’s suffocating him, there are the ghosts of memories lingering everywhere. They flood him as he looks around the room, trying to find sanctuary from the memories and the emotions that come with them. If he looks directly behind him he can almost see the smiling faces of three dead people, accompanied by the bright smile of Vasquez. The memory of the night they all got drunk together, the night he kissed Vasquez but had to stop to find his missing Maria. He can almost feel the ghost of the kisses on his lips… 

He’d like to leave the saloon, but worse than the memories are the pity-filled looks that would get thrown his way if he went out where all the townsfolk are, and that’s the last thing he could stand right now. 

It’s with a defeated sigh and a last swig from his bottle that he decides to venture up the stairs, because a bed sounds nice, and he doesn’t want to deal with anyone. He pauses when he reaches them, unsure of his ability to make it up by himself, but he doesn’t have any help, and he’ll reach the top out of pure stubbornness at this point. 

He takes slow hesitant steps, watching his feet as he goes. It’s a lot harder than he had anticipated, and he slips as he’s nearing the top, but he’s got a good enough hold on the railing to keep him from crashing the whole way down.

It’s humiliating, and if anyone were there to take witness he might die, but he crawls his way up the rest of the steps, like a dog, until he’s reached the top. He lays on the floor when he’s cleared them, catching his breath; that was certainly more difficult than it should have been, but he made it didn’t he? And that’s all that really counts at this point anyway. 

Getting to his feet isn’t all that hard, he uses a nearby door handle to help himself to his feet, and he makes his way to his room, shutting the door behind him. It looks empty and desolate, like a wasteland that was once a paradise, and he can’t ignore the gaping hole where a Mexican used to be. He forces himself to walk across the room, closing the curtains and flopping down on the bed, not even bothering to take off his boots.

 

There’s blood on his hands, warm and sticky and he’d like to throw up, but his stomach is empty. The body lying on the ground in front of him has it’s eyes wide open, peering up at the cloudless sky, the sun beating down on them both. It moves, sitting up like nothing has happened at all, but there’s a shot through his chest right at his heart, and he’s bled too much to still be alive. They always do this, sit up and ask him why, and he never has an answer. He’d just like to throw up, there’s so much blood, it’s staining the sand at their feet, spreading out towards him, and he’d like to run, to turn around, to move, anything, but he’s stuck in place, watching the man before him slowly rise to his feet, coming to a stop mere inches from Faraday. He looks at the Irishman, like the man’s gazing into his soul, like he can see every horrible thing the Faraday’s ever done and is judging him for it, but he doesn’t say anything beyond, “Why?” 

He wakes with a jolt, breathing fast, the darkness around him much more welcoming than those horrible dreams of dead men, and he reaches beside him for the comfort of… Oh, wait… He’s not there, Vasquez is gone, and he doesn’t have anyone to cling to in the hopes of driving away his fears, he’s all alone… He needs a drink. 

Faraday stumbles his way to the door, yanking it open and limping over to the stairs. He should take more precaution, really, but he needs some whiskey in him or he’s going to die. He slows down after the first two, reminding himself that they’re nothing but dreams, but there’s an urgency to his steps that refuses to leave. 

There are only three or so to go, not very far at all, just another… His leg gives out without warning, and he vaults forward, hitting the floorboards with a thud. Fuck that hurt, stupid leg. One hand comes up to rub at the pain radiating through his face, and comes away warm and wet, the bright crimson of blood staining his fingers when he looks at them questioningly. Great… He’s always hated having nosebleeds, they take forever to stop. Well, at least he can take comfort in the fact that the saloon’s empty, so nobody was there to take witness to his mishap.

He searches his pockets for his handkerchief, but it’s missing, so he wipes away what he can with his hand, and can’t help but think that his grandmother would certainly disapprove. He takes a seat at the bar, grabbing a bottle and taking a long drink; he really had hoped to spend the next day somewhat sober, but now he’s going to get shitfaced and just deal with another colossal hangover, because loneliness is such a bitch and it’s just easier to be drunk. 

 

He blinks questioningly at the light glaring in his eyes, not quite sure where exactly he’s wound up. Faraday’s tempted to just fall back to sleep and worry about his whereabouts later, but he has always been a bit too curious for his own good. 

He’s outside, it seems, laying across a bench near the corral, the rising sun thankfully at his back instead of directly in his eyes. It’s early, for him anyway, and his head is in a much better state than it was the previous morning, although that isn’t to say it’s not killing him now, but the pain is bearable. There’s a slight chill in the air, just enough that he almost wishes there was somebody there to nudge up against and share warmth with, but he tries to push the thought out of his mind.

The Irishman huffs a sigh and fishes a cigar out of his vest, content to sit there and just watch the horses for a while. He’d like to head back inside the saloon before the whole town is awake, but for now this is nice, and he’s going to enjoy the opportunity. A part of him wonders why exactly he ended up falling asleep in this spot, but it isn’t all that important, and he doubts the horses would be able to tell him, so there’s no use worrying himself over it. The last time he had been here he was watching the setting sun with Vasquez, and it brings back the ache in his chest to think about how empty the space beside him is. He’s ready for this feeling to go away already, or the Mexican to come back, but seeing as he’s almost positive they’ll never cross paths again it’s probably better to just wait for the feelings to recede. 

In the distance he can see a rider approaching on a white horse, the silhouette somewhat familiar… Faraday tries to reason with himself that it isn’t Vasquez approaching; he doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but as the horse steadily draws nearer it becomes more and more impossible to deny who the pair are. Maybe he’s dreaming? Faraday pinches himself, just to be sure he’s awake, and sure enough he is. For a second pure relief floods him; he can still make this right, he can fix everything, if Vasquez just gives him a chance, and he isn’t sure what other reason the man would have for coming back here. 

Something doesn’t feel right about the approaching man though, maybe it has to do with the leisurely way the horse is approaching, like the rider is in no hurry at all to get where he’s going. As Maria takes comes closer he can see the way Vasquez rocks with her movements, like he can barely keep himself upright on her. That’s when Faraday sees the blood, so much blood that it coats the entirety of his left sleeve. The Mexican isn’t holding the wound, making it easy for Faraday to see it through the torn remains of his shirt. It’s horrifying, and still dripping; the sight makes his own blood run cold. Vasquez is hurt badly, and seems to be teetering on the edge of consciousness. 

The Irishman finds his fingers reaching for the guns that aren’t there at his hips. He really does need to get a new pair, before he finds himself in actual need of them. There isn’t any immediate danger that he can see, not a sign of anyone trailing the Mexican in the distance, so whoever has done this has to have fled, or been killed. 

Maria comes to a stop of her own volition just a few feet away, and Vasquez slides off her, taking a few stumbling steps before he falls face first to the dirt, not making a move to get up. Faraday runs over, well limps over, as fast as he can, praying with everything in him that the man hasn’t just died. 

He immediately sinks to the ground when he’s reached the Mexican. The position makes his leg hurt, but his pain isn’t important right now, he needs to make sure Vasquez is okay. Faraday rolls the other man over and pulls him into his lap, letting out a relieved breath when he sees the other man is still alive, and even conscious too. 

He’s almost afraid Vasquez is going to tell him to leave him alone, which is what he deserves, but instead the Mexican mumbles, “Te ves como la mierda.”

“I don’t understand what that means, Vas. Speak english,” 

He opens his mouth to reply, but his eyes roll back in his head right before his eyelids flutter closed. 

It rips an unnatural sound from Faraday’s throat, and suddenly he’s screaming for help, begging that anyone will hear him and go fetch the doctor or do something, anything. 

“Vas,” A tear falls from his face down onto the other man’s, rolling down the side of his cheek to hide in his dark beard. “Fuck, just hang on, you’ll be fine.” He’s begun spouting off a million promises that the man will be okay, in the hopes that saying it might make it true. 

He puts a hand over the man’s wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood. He’s hesitant to put all the pressure he can on it, but he has no choice. The slick warmth instantly coats his fingers, and he wishes he could fix it, that he knew enough to actually be of some help instead of crying over the man and doing just barely the minimum. If he were able to walk better he would try to carry Vasquez to the doctor himself, but he can barely manage his own weight, so he’s forced to wait for others to come help.

Men come up behind him, immediately grabbing Vasquez’s unconscious body off the ground and hauling him away towards the doctor. Someone attempts to help Faraday to his feet, but he shoves them off, determined to do it himself. He hobbles along after the men carrying the Mexican, trying his best to keep up and more importantly hold himself together. He’s almost positive he’s never felt more useless in his entire life, but he can’t help the limitations his body sets, as much as he wishes he could, especially now. 

The doctor peeks his head out of his building before they make it there, and when he sees the approaching men he immediately ducks back inside, to get whatever he can ready, Faraday presumes. The men are moving along faster than he can manage to keep up, even with the dead weight of Vasquez between them, and they enter the building before he’s even halfway there. He picks up his own pace, praying that his leg doesn’t choose to let him down right now; he needs to be in there, he needs to know that Vasquez will make it. 

When he does finally make it, after agonizingly long seconds of limping, he heads straight for the closed door the people are milling about, where the doctor is most likely working on Vasquez. Somebody stops him before he can enter, saying that the doctor needs privacy and Faraday isn’t allowed in there. 

Fury builds in him, and he lashes out at anyone close enough to feel his wrath. He needs to be in there, why can’t they understand that? If Vasquez dies it’ll be all his fault, and he needs to be there, he needs to say he’s sorry for being an idiot and admit that he’s been in love for weeks now, and this may be his last opportunity. 

He knows tears are running down his face, but he couldn’t care less at this point. Four men hold him down, and someone shoves something in his mouth and refuses to let him breathe until he swallows it, even though he bites at any fingers that get too close. It’ll calm him down, they say. Well fuck them, he doesn’t need to calm down he needs to be in there. 

They don’t let him go until the fight has all but bled out of him, putting him in a chair and leaving him to cry to himself as he waits. He never thought he would see the Mexican again, and yet here he is basically praying the man doesn’t die. Faraday isn’t a religious person, he’s never believed a god so benevolent could let such cruelty into the world, but right now he’d sell his soul to literally anyone if it meant Vasquez would make it through. 

It feels like hours go by as he waits, and he goes through stages of grief and anger, but mostly he just feels empty and uncertain. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but he refuses to let them go. Right now he can’t even begin to fathom how Vasquez could stand waiting for the Irishman to get patched up, and on top of that wait around while he was unconscious for days, because Faraday hasn’t been sitting here for long at all and he feels like he’s going to go out of his mind. Even with whatever was shoved down his throat he’d still like to rip his hair out and scream and throw anything within reach, he doesn’t though, because he doesn’t want to have to be tied down or carried away, and he’ll be damned if he isn’t allowed in there the moment the doctor has finished. 

When the doctor does come out Faraday is just about to drift to sleep in the uncomfortable chair he hasn’t left since he got there. The man’s hands are stained red, the sleeves of his shirt bunched up on his forearms, and he looks exhausted. The look on his face makes the Irishman’s heart stop, and he’s afraid to take another breath as he waits for the man to tell him about Vasquez. The silence fills the room, and he feels his heart plummet as another second ticks by, preparing himself to hear the last words he ever wants. Instead of any verbal confirmation the doctor waves Faraday into the room, and that has to be a good sign, right? He certainly hopes so. 

He’s out of his seat in an instant, rushing into the room and letting out a relieved sigh when he sees Vasquez peacefully sleeping on a cot just big enough to hold him. The rise and fall of his chest is shallow, but it’s there, and that’s all that’s important. He looks incredibly pale, and it’s obvious he’s lost more blood than he should have, but he’s still alive, so at this point it doesn’t really matter, as long as he wakes up in the end. 

The moment those familiar dark eyes open he’s going to apologize for being an idiot and trying to pretend for so long that he didn’t care, but that’ll have to wait for the other man to wake up, and right now he’s got nothing but time on his hands as he waits for that to happen. Faraday pulls a chair to the edge of the bed and sits on Vasquez’s right side, holding a limp hand in his own. He’ll be here when the man wakes up, even if he’s got to stay in this chair for a whole week.

A thought runs through his head, a vicious one that wonders if the Mexican would even want him there. He had come back because he was injured, and it might have had everything to do with this being the closest town and nothing at all to do with the fact that Faraday’s still here. He doesn’t want to think about it, but it is a good possibility. When Vasquez wakes up he’ll make sure to say everything he’s been meaning to right away, and if that sultry Spanish voice tells him to get the hell out he’ll just have to accept that and move on, but until then he’s going to hold onto the hope that he hasn’t screwed up too much. 

He sits and watches the slow, almost imperceptible rise and fall of the man’s bare chest, his heart aching each time he doesn’t think it’ll rise again. 

“Please, you can’t die,” He whispers to the room. 

 

The entire night is spent drifting in and out of sleep, dreaming about dark eyes and a Spanish voice. In some of them he wakes up, in others he dies, and each time Faraday realizes he has actually woken up the deafening silence from the mattress feels like it’s going to overwhelm him. 

This shouldn’t have happened. It wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for him. He doesn’t know who shot Vasquez or why, but he does know if he hadn’t been an idiot the man would have stayed in town, and they wouldn’t be in this mess. Everything is his fault, and he feels so bad about it all, because he’s put this man through more pain than he should he should ever have to endure, and he can’t do much more than sit at Vasquez’s bedside and pray that he wakes up. 

It reminds him of when his mother was sick. His grandmother had been gracious enough to just die peacefully in her sleep, and he can remember the sad day he watched her coffin being lowered into the ground. His mother had been an entirely different matter. She had woken him with her cries, and it hadn’t taken long for him to notice the blood staining the mattress and it’s thin blanket, which they shared. There was so much of it, pooling around her legs, and she had begged him to go fetch the doctor. He had run with everything in him to find the man, but even at that time in the night his place was crowded with people who refused to listen to him. He cried and begged for someone to come help his mother, pulled on some shirts and pleaded with them to listen, but he had been hit by one man, and told to go away. They didn’t care what a child had to say, certainly not one like him. He wasn’t the right kind of white, he had freckles and red hair and a slight accent, and for some reason someone decided that Irish are lesser than others. 

He had run back to his mother, whose face had gone impossibly pale, and she just told him it was okay, held his hand as he wept. She had died a few hours later, with tears on her cheeks from her cries of pain. They had to drag him away from her body, hold him back while they shoved her in a wooden box. And when it was all said and done they just left him to cry at her grave, a homeless orphan. 

The fear that he’ll have to go through something like that again, with this man, makes his heart physically ache. 

 

A low groan escapes echoes around the quiet room, starling Faraday from his wandering thoughts. He watches dark eyes flutter open, blinking once or twice in an effort to focus before they scan the room. 

“You’re awake,” He breathes before he can stop himself. He hadn’t expected this, well that’s a lie, yes he had, he’s been doing nothing but hoping for this to happen, he just hadn’t assumed it would be so soon. 

All the words that he promised himself he would say seem to be stuck in his throat as he gapes at the man, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t go through with it after almost losing him. “I…” He stops, clearing his throat before he forces himself to continue. “I’m sorry, about everything. I know I’m an ass and I’ve been stupid. I don’t know if you’ll forgive me, but I.. well I..” 

He trails off as Vasquez’s uninjured arm reaches out towards him, closing his eyes in preparation for another slap, but instead he feels those fingers grip his collar and pull him down, connecting their lips. He opens his eyes, letting out a confused noise that Vasquez just swallows down. Of all the things he was expecting, this was certainly not one of them. 

When Vasquez breaks their kiss Faraday reels back, gaping like a fish out of water, unsure of what to say or do. 

“So does that mean you forgive me?” The words are almost a whisper. He isn’t sure what to make of the kiss, because the man could very well be delirious. 

Vasquez looks up at the ceiling, chuckling to himself. “Obviamente.”

“Good… that’s good. And um… I love you.” He looks at his boots to try to hide his embarrassment.

“I know,” The other man says simply. 

“Well you can’t blame me for-” He rushes into the little speech he had prepared to justify his feelings, before the meaning of the Mexican’s words registers, and he incredulously asks, “You know? What do you mean you know?” 

The man levels him with a serious look, the corner of his mouth tilting up into a small, fond smile, and shrugs as he offers, “You say it a lot in your sleep.”

“In my sleep… you mean all this time I’ve been telling you and… Oh, good lord,” He can feel the blush creeping up his cheeks, and just barely resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. 

“Yo también te amo,” Vasquez tells him, his voice fond and soft. 

He doesn’t quite understand what that means, but the general point is obvious. Faraday goes in for another kiss, because if he says much more he’s just going to make a fool of himself, and he’s wanted to do this for so long. Vasquez tastes like cigars and makes a low moan in the back of his throat. Nothing could make this moment more perfect, unless of course the Mexican wasn’t injured, but beggars can’t be choosers and all that.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask what happened, and why it took him so long to come back, but they can get to that later, right now he’s just going to savor the moment. His hands skate over the man’s bare chest, up the column of his neck, anywhere really. It’s only belatedly that he realizes he should stay away from the bandage covering Vasquez’s skin, and is rewarded with a hiss and a sharp intake of breath as his fingers glide over it. 

“Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t-”

Vasquez waves it off, a small smile on his face, before he pulls Faraday in again. 

 

The doctor lets Vasquez go after he’s been checked over, saying that he should take care not to do too much. Faraday can’t help but feel a little jealous that he’s immediately given a free card to do whatever he’d like, instead of being bedridden. Not that he wishes the man had nearly blown himself up or gotten shot in the leg, he just can’t help but feel there’s just something entirely unfair about it all. 

 

He’s curled against Vasquez, his head resting near the man’s good shoulder and an arm slung over his middle. 

“What happened?” He murmurs against bare skin. 

“Bounty hunters.” There’s something in the tense way the words spill from the man’s mouth that make Faraday rethink questioning any further details, but there is just one other thing he does have to know. 

“I hope you killed them.” It’s more of a statement than a question, but he doesn't really care.

“Sí, they’re dead.”

“Good,” He tightens his arm around the Mexican’s chest possessively, simultaneously pressing a kiss to his skin. 

 

\--- 

It’s a funny thing, leaving the small town he never thought he’d make it out of. They survived a battle, Faraday just barely, but still here he is, breathing. Vasquez had healed quickly, much more quickly than the Irishman had, so by the time his arm was back in working condition Faraday had just mastered walking, for the most part. His leg still gives out without warning sometimes, but the instances have become few and far between. 

They worked on his riding before they decided to finally set off, spent many an afternoon chasing the sunset together, laughing as they tried to see who could go the fastest. He hasn’t fallen off Jack since, although the horse seems to be able to sense when his leg starts to ache, because he’ll slow up before Faraday even has a chance to fall off. 

He’s gotten another set of Ethel and Maria, who look close enough to his original pair, although they’ll never be quite the same. They work, and maybe that’s all guns should have to do. 

He stops Jack at the top of a small hill to look back at the town with a sort of fondness. He wasn’t sure about the whole thing in the beginning, and he still isn’t exactly fond of the results; there were many men that lost their lives, but the only man that matters to him is ahead a few feet, watching him carefully from Maria. 

Faraday glances back at Rose Creek. He’ll never forget this place and what happened here, won’t forget the people he’s met and the memory of those who died. This was important, more important than he thought it could be; because he didn’t run away he gained something more important than anything he’s ever had his entire life, he has someone to watch his back and curl up with at night. He has a relationship more important than any he’s ever had before now, and without Sam Chisolm offering to buy his horse what feels like eons ago he never would have met Vasquez, and he’d be going on with his life never knowing what he missed. He’s happy, in retrospect, to have been bribed into joining an impossible mission, hell, he’s happy to have almost exploded, and he’d go through it all again if given the chance, but then he’d make sure to fall in love sooner. 

He smiles to himself, turning Jack forward and spurring him to walk up beside Maria. He looks at the Mexican, really looks at him, taking in the small smile on his lips and the way his dark eyes are focused on him, before smirking and urging Jack to gallop, a laugh bubbling up from his chest. He can hear Vasquez say something behind him, urging his own horse to catch up, and they race away, together, towards the rising sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> Te ves como la mierda - You look like shit.  
> Obviamente - obviously  
> Yo también te amo - I love you too
> 
>  
> 
> Okay, so wow, I'm sorry that took so long I was sick again and spent a few days trying not to die, lol. 
> 
> I went through a few stages of hating this chapter and then sort of just shrugging and accepting it, but at this point I'm tired of looking at it, so whatever.
> 
> I don't think I could ever thank all of you enough for your lovely encouragement and praise, but thank you, really, I hope you liked it. As always I'd love to know what you think! <3


End file.
